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Darling Mercy Dog of World War I

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Darling Mercy Dog of World War I

Written by Alison Hart

Illustrated by Michael G. Montgomery

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Published by PEACHTREE PUBLISHERS1700 Chattahoochee AvenueAtlanta, GA 30318-2112www.peachtree-online.com

Text © 2013 by Alison Hart Illustrations © 2013 by Michael Montgomery

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical,photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews,without the prior permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Nicki CarmackBook design by Melanie McMahon Ives

The cover illustration was rendered in oil; interior illustrations in pencil

Printed in June 2013 in the United States of America by RR Donnelley & Sons in Harrisonburg, Virginia10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 First Edition

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hart, Alison, 1950-Darling, mercy dog of World War I / by Alison Hart.

pages cmSummary: In Cosham, England, in 1917, Darling, a mischievous collie, must leave thechildren who love her when she is chosen for training as a mercy dog, seeking outinjured soldiers on the battlefield and leading medics to them.ISBN-13: 978-1-56145-705-2 / ISBN-10: 1-56145-705-11. Collie—Juvenile fiction. 2. Search dogs—Juvenile fiction. [1. Collie—Fiction. 2.Search dogs—Fiction. 3. Dogs—War use—Fiction. 4. Soldiers—Fiction. 5. World War,1914-1918—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ10.3.H247Dar 2013[Fic]—dc23

2012050991

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To all the brave and dedicated working dogs —A.H.

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February 1917

Darling is going to be a nurse,” Mistress Katherine

said. I felt a tug on my collar as she pulled me

toward her.

“Darling is going to be a soldier!” Master Robert

declared. A harder tug yanked me toward him.

Katherine set a pretend nurse’s cap on my shaggy

head. “The British soldiers need Darling to care for

their wounds,” she insisted.

“No, silly goose.” Robert whisked away the cap

and replaced it with a heavy helmet. “She will be in

the trenches on the Front, fighting.”

Chapter One


2

The three of us were in the fenced yard behind

“home,” a small brick house in the village of Cosham

in England. A pigeon flew from the eaves and flapped

over my head. I leaped up, trying to catch it, and the

helmet toppled to the ground.

Katherine grinned. “See? Darling doesn’t want to

be a soldier.” She reached for the nurse’s cap, still in

Robert’s hand. “Give it to me, please.”


“Never.” Robert tossed the cap into the rosebush.

“She will be a sergeant, like Father.”

“Oh, you brute! Mummy!” Katherine hollered as

she ran for the back door.

Another pigeon fluttered from the eaves. I jumped,

and it soared upward. Ears pricked, I raced after the

bird as it glided over the picket fence. I dove beneath

the rosebush. The thorns snagged my fur but couldn’t

get through the thick rough of my coat. Working furi-

ously, I widened the hole I had been digging for days.

“No, Darling.” Robert grabbed my collar. “You

mustn’t run off. Father is leaving for France this morn-

ing. We have to say goodbye.”

Dirt flew from beneath my paws. Tugging free

from Robert’s grasp, I crawled under the fence. Rags

met me on the other side, his terrier whiskers bristling

with excitement. We raced down the dirt lane. Pigeons

burst from sidewalks and stoops, taunting us.

No pigeon could escape us! Rags and I darted right

and left. Turning the corner, Rags led the way up

High Street.

3

Darling, Mercy Dog of World War I


“Get outter the way, you mutts!” Cart wheels

barely missed my paw. A burlap sack of last year’s

potatoes fell onto the walk in front of me. Thomas,

the fruit seller’s cob, whinnied. His hooves danced

and his harness jingled as if he wanted to gallop away

with us.

In the distance, I heard Robert and Katherine

calling. But I was tired of playing soldier and nurse.

Running free was too fun.

A horn honked as we crossed the cobbled road.

Tires screeched. A cane whacked at my head. The

baker’s boy yelped as we wound around his legs. Rags

zipped past the post office.

Sparky the postmaster’s dog used to bark from the

doorway when we went past. Sweet from the dress

shop would chime in with her yips. Where were they

now? Lately, Rags’s and my barks were the only ones

to be heard.

I lifted my muzzle in the air. The smell of meat

and marrow teased my nose.

The butcher’s boiling bones! We both knew what

4

Alison Hart


that meant. Bones to steal. Bones to gnaw. Bones to

bury.

Rags tossed a “hurry up” bark over his shoulders.

Panting, we careened down Wayte Street and stopped

at the back corner of the shop. A huge cast-iron kettle

steamed over a wood fire. There was no sign of the

apron-clad butcher and his cleaver.

Rags crouched in the shadows around the corner.

I waited politely by the back door. My ears pricked

when it creaked open.

“Aye, Darling, you artful beggar. Are you looking

for a bit of a treat?” the butcher asked.

I sat back on my haunches and lifted my paws

prettily.

Plucking two bones from the pot with bare fingers,

he tossed them to me. “Don’t be wasting them now.

Times are hard since food’s been rationed, and the win-

ter’s been so cold.” He sighed. “I wish this bloody war

would end.”

Rags darted out, snatched a hot bone, and ran off.

I barked a thank-you. Delicately, I picked up my bone

5



between my teeth so as not to get burned and trotted

after him. He was hiding behind a barrel, gnawing

greedily. Rags had grown wary of the police, who shot

strays. Since he had no family, he was always hungry. I

dropped my bone by his front paws. I knew he would

bury it for later.

Leaving Rags to his treat, I made my way back to

High Street. I did have a family. I thought of Robert

and Katherine, calling after me. My heart tugged in

the direction of home. But my nose pointed north to

the sheep pasture just beyond the village.

Excitement made me trot briskly. Sheep were in my

blood. My mum herded on a farm on the outskirts of

Cosham. Before my new family had taken me home to

live with them, I herded too.

Past the Railway Hotel, I broke into a run. Ports-

down Hill rose in the distance. Sheep dotted the brown

foothills like specks of snow. I dashed up the tram line.

I heard clattering and clanking and looked over my

shoulder to see the emerald green streetcar. It barreled

toward me on its way over The Hill. I scooted off the

6

Alison Hart


tracks to let it pass. Sheep flowed away from the racket

in a wave of white.

“Darling!”

“Oh, do be careful!”

Robert and Katherine stood on the other side of

the tracks, waving and shouting. They had put on

mittens and caps against the cold.

Caught! I trotted over the tracks toward my chil-

dren. My tail was tucked. My ears drooped as I tried

to look sorry for running off. Katherine and Robert

hurried toward me.

“Naughty girl!” Robert tied a rope to my collar.

“It’s a wonder Farmer James hasn’t shot you. We must

hurry now and get to the train station. Father is ship-

ping off for France.”

“Even though he shouldn’t go to war.” Katherine

sounded like Mum. She pulled me close and made

sure the knot in the rope was tight. “Father is simply

too old. Come along, Darling. Mummy’s waiting at

the train station with Baby. She’s been weeping ever

since Father volunteered.”

7



Alison Hart

8

I cast a wistful glance at the sheep. I didn’t care

about Father shipping off. I didn’t care that Mum was

weeping. I didn’t care about war and hard times. But

I followed Katherine and Robert, wagging my tail and

pretending that I did.

Until I could run away again.


February 1917

S cree-ee-ee-eech! The squeal of the locomotive

hurt my ears. I crouched on the platform by

Katherine’s side, wishing I was off with the sheep.

Mum wore her best coat. Baby’s wool bonnet was dec-

orated with British flags.

Behind them stood Father, dressed in khaki. I

knew this was his uniform because Robert often tried

it on and marched around his attic bedroom when no

one but me was looking. Father’s back was straight.

He frowned when he saw me.

Chapter Two


Smoke and steam filled the air. Squee-ee-ee-al!

Slowly the locomotive braked to a stop, the noise

drowning out Katherine’s and Mum’s sobs.

Soldiers milled around us, waiting to depart. I

barely recognized the livery boy in his new army uni-

form, even though he used to chase Rags and me from

the stable every morning. The tailor’s son, the green

grocer, and the pastry cook at the inn who sometimes

threw us scraps were all also dressed as soldiers. None

of them paid me mind now.

As a group of soldiers boarded the railway car,

cheers rang out. Robert and his friends waved flags

and a group of young ladies held up a banner. The

young men in uniform gave their last goodbyes. Their

smiles were brave, but I could sense their fear.

Father hugged Katherine. “Don’t cry, my pet. With

these fresh recruits, the war will be over by Christmas.

I’ll be home with presents.”

“A doll from Paris?” Katherine asked between

snuffles. “With a lace skirt?”

Alison Hart

10


11


Robert dropped on one knee next to me. “Darling,

look.” He pointed to four soldiers standing like a row

of trees alongside the nearest railcar. “See their rifles?

They’re guarding us from the Germans.”

“Robert.” Father’s tone was grave.

Robert jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“You must be the man of the house.” Father stuck

out his hand and the two shook. “Mother will need

your help.”

“Yes, sir!” Robert saluted him. “And soon I will

join you at the Front.”

Father chuckled. “The war will not wait for you

to turn eighteen.”

“Geoffrey the chimney sweep enlisted at sixteen,”

Robert declared.

“Without his parent’s permission,” Mum said

sternly. “And you are but twelve.”

“All aboard!” The conductor’s shout rang down the

platform.

Father held Mum one last time. Baby squalled; he

Alison Hart

12


hated the noise as much as I did. “Christmas, then,”

Father told her. “They are saying the war will be over

before year’s end. That’s only eight months.”

Mum nodded, her eyes red. Then she stepped

back, Baby clutched tightly in her arms. Father patted

my head as if forgiving me for running off. “Watch

over them, Darling,” he said before climbing the steps

to the railcar.

“Goodbye, Father!” Katherine waved a lace hand-

kerchief. As the locomotive began to move, Robert

snatched my rope from his sister’s hand. Together, we

wove through the cheering onlookers, toward the end

of the platform. Several soldiers swung aboard at the

last minute. The giant steel wheels groaned as the

train picked up speed.

“Next stop, Portsmouth!” the guard shouted from

the top of the railcar’s steps.

“Do you see him, Darling?” Robert asked. I

scanned the open windows for Father’s face, barking

when I spied him.


13


“Goodbye, Father!” Robert hollered. “Goodbye!”

Stopping at the end of the platform by the stacked

freight, he waved at the departing train.

Brown shapes scurried among the wooden crates.

My nose twitched. Rats!

I took off, tearing the rope from Robert’s grasp.

Dashing between the boxes, I went after the rats. But

those pests were quick and clever. If Rags was here,

they would have no chance. He caught and killed

them with a snap of his jaws. I dashed toward them,

but they outwitted me, disappearing in the dark

crevices.

I needed Rags’s help and I knew where to find him.

Head low, I sneaked away from the clatter of the train

on the rails. I made my way to the outskirts of

Cosham. By day, Rags often hid in the chalk pits on

Portsdown Hill, away from the dogcatcher’s net. It was

an easy run for me.

When my nose picked up the scent of the sheep,

my pace picked up too. Soon I spied them grazing on

the slope. I sunk to my belly and crept along the

14

Alison Hart


brown grass, eyes keen. One sheep lifted his head.

Then another. They began to trot up the hill and I

followed them, circling around the herd.

Go this way! I told them with a nip at their hocks.

No, go that way! Confused, they bleated and began to

trot faster.

Suddenly I heard the crack of a gun. Farmer James!

“Be off, you bloody mongrel!” Another crack.

I slipped into the middle of the herd, winding

among the sheep so Farmer James couldn’t get a clear

shot at me. Rope trailing, I plunged through the

cowslip, keeping low. Ahead of me were rows of white

tents along the swell of Portsdown Hill. Soldiers sat on

camp stools and cleaned rifles. Rags and I used to beg

at the camp, and the soldiers—training far from

home—had been friendly. But things had changed and

their faces had grown sterner. Today these soldiers

might be as unfriendly as Farmer James.

I ducked into a thicket of hawthorn and wild

privet and peered out from under the branches. There

was little cover between here and the chalk pits, but

15



once there I would be safe. Still staying low, I darted

toward the hills. Suddenly, I was jerked flat. The rope!

The loose end was snagged between two hawthorn

branches.

I scrambled to my feet. Voices. Someone was com-

ing. I tugged furiously, hoping to dislodge the rope,

but it wouldn’t budge.

“Looks like he’s got himself stuck.”

The voices were coming closer. I yanked harder. The

knot was beginning to tear free when strong fingers

wrapped around my collar.

“Aye, lad. Quit your pulling.” The rope lifted and I

was tugged from the brush. Wagging my tail, I looked

up, hoping neither of the faces staring down at me were

Farmer James or Constable Cornwall. Two soldiers

stared down at me, their caps tipped back.

“He’s a handsome one,” said the man holding my

rope. “Has a collar and looks well fed. He must not

be a stray.”

“Though someone was shooting at him. I bet he’s

run off.” The other soldier looked me over carefully.

16

Alison Hart


“Hello, this isn’t a he…this is a she. Isn’t this the collie

we named Lassie who comes begging with her mate?

The one who comes round with two children from

the village?”

“What should we do with her? If the farmer or

police catch her, they’re bound to shoot her.”

“Or the dogcatcher will pack her off to Battersea

Dogs Home.”

“I heard the army takes the dogs that end up there.

Turns them into war dogs.”

I licked the soldier’s hand and whined. He

laughed. “She’s telling us she doesn’t want to go to

war. I know exactly how you feel, lass.”

“Let’s turn her loose then. She’ll find her way.” The

second soldier crouched. “You head home, girl. Dogs

all across England are being shot or sent to homes now

that the dog tax is so high. Your family must love you

a lot to pay it. So go on now.”

He untied the rope. I circled twice, barked a thank-

you, and ran off. This time I sped straight toward

Cosham village. I hadn’t understood all the talk about

17



Battersea Dogs Home and war dogs. But I knew

that I was lucky. It might have been Farmer James

who had caught me—and he would not have spared

my life.

Alison Hart

18


Beginning of March 1917

This is a jolly good day for you, Robert,” Mister

Crispin said when we entered the post office. He

pushed a small stack of envelopes across the counter.

“You have two letters from your father.”

Robert’s eyes shone eagerly as he took them. “Is

one addressed to me?” he asked.

“It is.” The postmaster chuckled and leaned over

the counter. “Good day to you, Miss Darling,” he said

to me. “Are you going to join your master in the war?”

He pointed to a bulletin tacked on the wall. “The

British Army is using dogs as well as lads.”

Chapter Three


Alison Hart

20

“Really?” Robert led me over to the bulletin. It

showed a dog standing proudly on a hill. Bombs

blasted behind him. “See Darling? That German shep-

herd is a soldier. I told Katherine you could be one.”

“They don’t call them German shepherds any-

more,” Mister Crispin said. “They call them Alsatians.

On account of us hating the Huns since the war

started.”

Robert read aloud from the poster. “‘Even a Dog

Can Aid the War Effort. Why Not You?’” He puffed

out his chest. “I would go in an instant, Mister

Crispin,” he declared.

“I too. But alas, I am old with poor eyesight and

flat feet. Now hurry home. Your mum will be anxious

for those letters. You let me know how your father is

faring.”

“Look, Darling, one is addressed to me!” Robert

said. I trotted beside him as he hurried to the top of

High Street. Sitting on the chemist shop’s stoop, he

carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet

of paper.


21


“‘Dear Robert,’” he read. “‘Mother writes that you

and Katherine are working hard at your studies and

properly doing chores. Thank you for being a good

son. She tells me that Darling is still running off and

that Farmer James has complained about Darling wor-

rying the sheep.’”

Robert frowned. “I told Mum not to tell Father

about that. You don’t hurt the sheep. And you always

come back…right, girl?”

I laid my head on his leg. My muzzle twitched; I

could smell meat from the butcher’s. Lately, all

Katherine fed me was a boiled egg or bread soaked in

milk. The butcher had been tossing fewer bones as

well. I licked my lips. My mouth watered for shep-

herd’s pie and minced beef.

Robert ruffled my ears as he continued reading.

“‘The French Armies use dogs, and the British are

training them, too. Messenger dogs are smart and

swift. Sentry dogs are keen and brave. Darling would

be fine at either. I know this will be hard for you and

your sister, but the dog tax has gone up to ten

22

Alison Hart


shillings, and we can no longer afford to keep her. I

have written Mister Seligman, the area recruitment

officer. He will be coming round to the house to pick

up’”—Robert gasped—“‘…to pick up Darling!’” He

leaped to his feet, startling me. “What is Father say-

ing? That you are to go to war? I won’t allow it! Father

says I am in charge. I’ll tell Mum we need you here.”

Tugging my rope, he raced down the lane toward

home. Robert seemed upset, but I was happy to be

off with him.

“Mum! Katherine!” Robert hollered as we rounded

the corner. Mum stood on the front walk, talking with

Missus Ketchum from next door. Katherine leaned

over Baby’s pram. “Who’s my wittle ducky?” she

cooed.

I skittered to a halt as Missus Ketchum swung

round, glaring at me. “There’s the scalawag that done

this!” She held up a white pillow slip and lacy under-

garments, all streaked with dirt.

“And you can’t play innocent. Look ’ere.” She held

a petticoat under Robert’s nose, and he flushed. Brown

23



paw prints dotted the fabric. “It don’t take Sherlock

’olmes to figger out ’oo’s guilty.”

I slunk behind Robert. Rags had been the one to

pull down the wash, but I had joyfully trampled it.

“I am so sorry, Missus Ketchum. We try to keep her

from running loose.” Mum’s face was dark with anger.

“Robert, take Darling inside and lock her in the cellar.”

“Yes ma’am.” Head low, Robert led me into the

house and down the narrow hall. He opened the door

of the dank cellar. I hesitated, not wanting to go down

the narrow steps. “You have made Mum furious, Dar-

ling. When Mister Seligman comes, she’ll be only too

eager to be rid of you.” He sighed deeply.

“Robert?” Katherine whispered. I turned around

quickly. She had followed us down the hall so silently

that I hadn’t sensed she was there. “What’s wrong?”

“Darling is going to war.” Robert’s choked out.

Katherine’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Father has told the recruitment officer to pick her

up. She’ll be trained as a messenger dog or sentry.

She’ll be shipped off to France, just like Father.”

24

Alison Hart


Katherine’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought that

was what you wanted.” She kneeled beside me and

buried her face in my fur. “You said you wanted her

to be a soldier and go to the Front.”

“That was pretend.” Robert leaned down to pet me.

“If Darling leaves, I’m afraid she’ll never come back.”

“Then we’ll help her run away.” Katherine began

to unknot the rope from my collar. “She’ll live in the

chalk mine with Rags. He’ll know how to hide her

from the recruitment officer. We’ll bring them bread

and bones when we can.”

Robert took her hand off the rope. “No. I wouldn’t

want Darling to end up in the Battersea Dogs Home.

I suppose Father is right. This is best. Darling hates

being penned in the yard and locked in the cellar. She’s

smart and fast. The poster at the post office shows a

war dog. That could be Darling.”

“Is that what you want, girl?” Katherine held my

face between her fingers and I licked her chin. “Do

you want to serve with Father’s regiment and save his

life?”

25



Robert nodded. “Yes, she does. She’ll protect

Father from the Germans, and both will come home

heroes.”

“I thought I told you children to lock Darling in

the cellar,” Mum said as she strode down the hall,

Baby tucked under one arm like a package. I wagged

my tail but she didn’t even glance at me as she went

into the kitchen.

“We can’t now,” Robert said, following her. “Dar-

ling needs to get ready to go to war.”

“What nonsense are you nattering on about?”

Mum plopped Baby in his high chair and handed him

his bowl of gruel. He promptly threw his spoon to the

floor. I got two or three licks off it before Katherine

scooped it up. “Be good now,” she warned me in a

low voice. “So Mum will forget about locking you in

the cellar.”

“Two letters came from Father.” Robert thrust

them at Mum. “One was addressed to me.”

Mother’s face paled and she slumped onto the

nearest chair. “Is…is he all right?” she stammered.

26

Alison Hart


“He’s fine,” Robert said as she took the letters.

Carefully she tore open the one addressed to her.

She read it to herself, her face turning pink again. Then

she read the one addressed to Robert. Katherine and

Robert stood quietly, watching her. Baby flailed his

arms and dumped over his gruel. When no one paid

mind, I licked up the drips running down the legs of

the high chair.

Finally Mum’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled.

“Yes, he is fine. He made the crossing over the Chan-

nel and is stationed in France. He mustn’t say where

he is in case the Germans get ahold of his letter.” She

held out her arms. “He also sends this hug.”

Katherine and Robert fell onto her lap. Barking, I

wiggled between them.

“Did you read the part about Darling?” Robert

asked.

Mum nodded. “It is sad, but it’s for the best.

Everyone has to sacrifice in wartime—even dogs and

children.” Mum patted my head, and I poked my

muzzle into her lap, glad that she’d forgiven me. But

27



Alison Hart

28

then Katherine began to cry. I snuffled her cheek,

wondering what was wrong.

“I’m sorry, dear, but the war has changed every-

thing. So it is for the best,” Mum repeated quietly.

And this time I heard the sadness in her words.


March 1917

Whoo-whoooo! A whistle sounded and I toppled

sideways, hitting the wall of my wooden crate

as the train slowed. Scree-ee-eech! This time I wasn’t

on the platform saying goodbye. Instead I was inside

a rattling, swaying railcar.

I righted myself, circled, and lay down, trying to get

comfortable in the musty straw. Above, beside, and

below me, more dogs in crates barked. I heard the deep

woofs of large mastiffs, the shrill yaps of small terriers.

The brakes made a loud hiss, and the train drew

to a stop. The barking became more frantic, as if the

Chapter Four


Alison Hart

30

dogs were begging to be set free. The train had stopped

many times before, and no one had freed us, so I tried

not to get my hopes up.

Voices came from outside, and the whines and

barks rose into a chorus. Is this home? they asked. Are

we finally home?

I closed my eyes. I was hungry, tired, and cramped.

A low whine escaped from deep in my own throat.

Where we were going, I had no idea. But I had sensed

from Katherine’s fierce hug and Robert’s teary farewell

that this train was not taking me home.

9

“Shoeburyness!” The cry woke me from a restless sleep.

I knew what shoes were—they tasted delicious—

and of course I understood the word “bury.” Was this

our final stop? My stomach growled. I was so thirsty

that my tongue was dry. No one had fed or watered

us in what seemed like forever. I couldn’t tell how long

we’d been locked inside the noisy railcar.

“All passengers for Shoeburyness!”



31

The train eased to a stop, and I heard clanking and

scraping noises. Suddenly the heavy door slid open.

Sunlight poured in, making me blink. A chorus of

barks rang out around me. Let me out! Let me out! I’m

hungry. I’m thirsty. I’m tired.

I stayed silent.

“Settle down, you mongrels.” The voice did not

sound angry. “Your ’andlers’ll be ’ere in a spit to get

you out.”

I tried to see through the air holes in my crate. A

group of men stood in the doorway of the freight car.

They were dressed in uniforms like Father. Each held

a leather leash in his hand.

“A good lot,” one said heartily. “At least two dozen.

The War Office message in the newspapers must have

stirred folks into donating their dogs.”

A second man chuckled. “That and the increase

in the dog tax. Only wealthy gents and ladies can

afford their lurchers and lap dogs.”

“Let’s get these unloaded, men!” someone called out.

Paws drummed above me as the dogs realized they


were being released. Others dug wildly at the wooden

doors. I crouched against the back of the crate and

hid my muzzle in the corner. These men weren’t

Katherine and Robert. And this place smelled of fish,

not of sheep. Oh, how I wished I was home.

I heard dog after dog leap from the railcar. Finally

the din receded. “I think there’s one dog left.” A man

peered into my cage.

“Must be hiding, Sergeant,” a second man said.

“Or sick. Hasn’t made a peep.”

The latch ratcheted back and the door opened.

“Aye, beauty, are you homesick? I’m Sergeant Hanson.”

The other man laughed. “You’ll be shaking ’ands

with ’im next.”

“Perhaps I will, Private Kent.” Sergeant Hanson

held his hand under my nose. “You’ve got to be

hungry.”

A small bit of dried beef was in his palm. I hadn’t

had a meat scrap since long ago. Still wary of him, I

took it carefully.

“Dainty one, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Must be a

32

Alison Hart


lady among all these gents.” His fingers found my col-

lar and hooked a leash to the ring. “Look, there’s a

note attached. Come on, girl. I know you’ve got to

relieve yourself.”

Slowly I crawled from the crate and jumped to the

wooden platform. I was stiff, but I strained at the leash

when I saw a grassy plot outside. I did my business,

ducking behind a gaslight pole for privacy.

The Sergeant led me to a bucket of water. While I

drank, he read the note aloud. Dear soldier. This is Dar-

ling. She is smart and brave. Please take care of her and

send her home to us. We love her even though she runs

away sometimes. Yours truly, Robert and Katherine.

“Darling?” Private Kent snorted. “That name’ll

send fear straight as an arrow into those black German

hearts.” He held the leash of a large white and tan

hound with floppy ears. Raising his head, the hound

bayed, then leaped and tugged at the leash. Most of

the other dogs and handlers were off in the distance,

walking down the lane.

“Hello then, Darling.” Sergeant Hanson folded up

33



the letter and slid it into his pocket. “You remind me

of my own dog when I was a boy.” He stroked my

head. “We were sheep farmers outside of Surrey.

Come, lass. Let’s see how well you know commands.”

He started walking and said, “Heel!”

I knew the command well. I fell into step beside

Sergeant Hanson’s side, eyes keen. The four of us set

off down the lane. The hound circled Private Kent,

tangling the leash in his legs. As we left the station, I

checked the railway tracks that wound through a

marshy field. That was the pathway to home.

After a good meal I would be off, trotting the rails

back to Cosham. The train ride had seemed endless,

but my legs could carry me for hours.

We followed the lane past a row of small shops. One

smelled like the Cosham bakery and my stomach

growled again. As we left the village, the ground under

my paws became sandy and the smell of fish grew

stronger. Birds swooped overhead. Larger than pigeons,

they were white and gray with orange bills. They eyed

me as if unafraid.

34

Alison Hart


It was then I saw the water, which stretched as far

as I could see. Its vastness reminded me of Portsdown

Hill, except it was gray, and there were no sheep.

I stopped, my nose high, drawing in the chilly,

briny air.

“That’s the North Sea you smell,” the sergeant said

to me. “Up ahead the River Thames flows into it. The

training school isn’t far.”

“Maybe a map would ’elp ’er figger out where she

is,” Private Kent called over his shoulder as the hound

dragged him past us.

“It might be you who’ll need the map when your

charge pulls you clear to London,” Sergeant Hanson

replied with a laugh.

We continued on, the ground growing mucky and

slick in places. A large building surrounded by walls

stood on a hill in the distance. I heard barking and

howling coming from the other side. I pricked my

ears. Was this another railcar taking me even further?

Or a place for naughty dogs who chased sheep?

We rounded the wall. The hound ahead of me

35



Alison Hart

36

suddenly stopped and growled ferociously, then lunged

backward, yanking Private Kent off his feet. “Whoa,

you beast!” he ordered as he struggled to regain his foot-

ing in the mud.

Sergeant Hanson chuckled. “Beast is a good name

for that one. Perhaps he can be trained to pull

artillery.”

Tongue lolling and frothy, Beast plunged right and

left. I stepped back as Private Kent reined him in with

the leash. I trembled, wondering what Beast had seen

that caused such a wild reaction.

“Nothing to fear. Come.” Sergeant Hanson

strode forward and past the wall. Before us stretched

a field striped with row after row of wooden crates.

Tied to each crate was a dog—some small and large,

some fuzzy and floppy. There were more dogs than

had once lived in the whole village of Cosham, and

they were frantically barking as they jumped on and

off the crate roofs.

The other handlers and dogs had arrived from the

railway, adding to the frenzy. I heard barks of greeting,


but I also heard howls of unhappiness and growls of

anger and fear.

Cosham had gradually grown empty of dogs. Was

this where they had gone? Tucking my tail, I pressed

myself against the sergeant’s leg.

“It’s all right, Darling.” He gave me a reassuring

pat on the head. “They’ll calm down. And you’ll be

37


kenneled behind the barracks with the other ladies.”

The sergeant led me around a squat building

where there were only five wooden boxes. Two were

empty. Three held other females: a sleek tan racer, a

squat spaniel, and a sad-eyed Airedale. None barked.

Instead they all stared at Sergeant Hanson, their tails

wagging hopefully.

“Private Kent will bring dinner soon, lasses,” he

said as he steered me to the last crate. “This is Darling.

She’ll be your new mate.”

I raised my lip and showed my teeth when the

three looked at me. No, I will not be your mate. Rags

is my only friend. And I will be away from this place as

soon as I get loose.

I felt the sergeant’s fingers on my collar as he took

off the leash and tied on a rope. He tested the knot,

then straightened. Immediately, I lunged to the end

of the line.

“Aye, Darling. Your Robert and Katherine wrote

that you like to run away. Only there will be none of

that here.” Sergeant Hanson looked down at me, his

38

Alison Hart


hands on his hips. I bit at the rope, but it was thick

and tough.

“You belong to the British Army now,” he went

on. “You are no longer a pet nor is your name Darling.

You are War Dog 204. This will be your home for the

next six weeks, and when you leave here, it’ll be on a

steamer to France—and to war.”

39



Beginning of April 1917

Night. Dark and starless. The lorry rumbled up

the road and then slowed on a desolate strip of

beach. Sergeant Hanson stood in the open-air back of

the truck and I stood with him. The handlers sat on

benches along the sides, their dogs in front of them.

“This will be the first real test for the dogs,” Ser-

geant Hanson said, swaying with the truck’s movement.

“Messenger dogs have proved themselves to be four to

five times faster than a man when delivering dispatches

in war areas. Let’s see how this group does.”

Chapter Five


I recognized the hound called Beast, and Tweed,

the sad-eyed Airedale. The others were unknown to

me. After three weeks of learning commands—sit,

stay, heel, retrieve, down, begone—I no longer snarled

at strange dogs. I no longer strained at my rope. But

my thoughts were still on Katherine and Robert and

my family back home, and I hoped that tonight I

would get my chance to run away.

“Their keepers are back at the kennels, waiting for

us to release the dogs,” the sergeant continued. “We’ll

see which one makes it back in record time.”

“And who gets lost in the mudflats,” one of the

handlers added.

“And ’oo ends up in Shoeburyness begging at the

butcher’s,” another chimed in. Everyone laughed.

Sergeant Hanson didn’t even smile. “Messenger

dogs must feel a keen delight in carrying out their

duties. Tonight will determine which ones will continue

training—and which will be destroyed.”

The laughter died down.


41


Tweed whimpered. She pined for her cozy bed by

the fire as much as I pined for my children and free-

dom.

“No torches are allowed to light the way, so tread

carefully through the marsh. We’ll spread out.

Smythe, McCann, and Reeves—head west up the

beach. Harlow, Jasper, and Donnelly—head east.

When I blow the whistle, release your dog with the

command ‘begone.’”

We jumped from the lorry, and the other men and

dogs silently disappeared into the night. I trotted

down the beach by Sergeant Hanson’s side. He was

silent too. I had grown numb to the constant barking

of dogs and orders, so this quiet night was a treat. It

reminded me of many nights in Cosham. After the

family was in bed, I would wiggle under the picket

fence and join Rags. We would explore the village, tip-

ping over rubbish bins and lunging at stray cats.

What had happened to my old pal? Had Consta-

ble George finally caught him? Or worse, had he been

shot? My heart saddened at the thought. But soon I

42

Alison Hart


would be back in Cosham to find the answer. And

when I returned, I would sneak bones to Rags every

day. And I wouldn’t run away from my family ever

again.

Sergeant Hanson turned off the beach and into

the mudflats. My paws sunk deep, and spiny marsh

grasses snagged my fur. We wound past fallen

branches and gnarled stumps. I heard the shrill whoo-

whoo of the train whistle in the distance. I turned my

head toward the sound. How long would it take me

to reach Cosham from here?

“Darling.” A firm tug on the leash got my atten-

tion. Sergeant Hanson kneeled in the mud in front of

me. His eyes were solemn as he held my furry head in

his hands. “This is the last test for you. You are smart

and swift. You have learned every command faster

than any dog at the school. You would be a fine mes-

senger but alas, your heart is not in it. You are too

lightweight for pulling artillery and too shy for sentry

duty. The major has identified you as a dog he expects

to fail tonight. And if you do”—his voice caught—

43



Alison Hart

44

“you will not return to Robert and Katherine.”

He removed my collar and slid a different one

around my neck. This one had a metal canister

attached to it. I knew what the special collar meant:

“return to my keeper.”

“Private Kent is waiting for you and your message.

He has liver treats and a bowl of cool water,” Sergeant

Hanson told me. “Now it is up to you.” Unhooking

the leash, he stepped back, gave the whistle one shrill

blow, and ordered. “Begone.”

I took off, running toward the sound of the train

whistle. This was the first time I had been turned

loose so far from the kennels and the first time I had

drilled at night. No one would see me if I ran away. If

I raced swiftly, I should reach Cosham by sunup.

A loud crash from the beach made me whirl. Beast

lunged through the tall grass, passing me without a

glance as he headed for the kennels. I paused, watching

him go. My thoughts went to Private Kent, who fed

me morning and night, brushed my fur, and cleaned

my crate—all with a gentle pat and kind words.



45

My thoughts turned back to Robert and Kather-

ine. I remembered racing free through the village with

Rags. The canister and “return” meant nothing to me.

Once again I started for the railway.

Then my ears picked up a cry. I stopped in my

tracks. It was Sergeant Hanson. I would recognize his

voice anywhere. The cry came again, and this time I

heard his distress.

Without a second thought, I plunged back the

way I had come. I found him sitting up, half hidden

in the grass. One leg was stretched in front of him at

an odd angle. His face was pale. “Aye, Darling, it’s

you. I’m glad you came back, but I was hoping one

of the men would hear me. It looks like I’ve gone and

twisted my leg falling over this wretched stump in the

dark.”

I didn’t need him to say any more. I didn’t need to

hear “begone” or “return.” The pain in his face told me

everything.

I licked his hand where it clutched his knee and

then raced for the kennels and Private Kent.


46



47

Between the beach and barracks were many obsta-

cles. We had practiced leaping ditches and gates and

crawling through barbed wire and tunnels. Once I

made it through the marsh, I came upon some scruffy

bushes and a pen. Goats! My nose twitched at their

pungent smell. One stamped the ground and shook

his horns when I peered through the slatted fence.

Herd them, chase them, rang in my head. But this

time I couldn’t. I had to ignore my instincts and get

help for Sergeant Hanson.

On the other side of the goat pen was a forest of

sea-wind stunted trees. Once through it, I would find

the barracks and Private Kent. The yellow glow of a

lantern spurred me onward.

Private Kent’s face lit up when he saw me. I saw

no sign of Beast, Tweed, or the other dogs.

“Good girl,” he praised. “I knew you could do it.

Even though the other dogs came in long before you,”

he added, sounding gloomy. He reached for my collar,

but I danced out of his way. His brows lowered.

“Come ’ere, Darling. I ’ave your liver treat.”


I didn’t want liver. I wanted Private Kent to follow

me. I knew not to bark. “Silent” had been drilled into

us from the beginning. So I twirled around and I

dashed back toward the woods.

“Darling.” His voice was firmer this time. “Come!”

Just then Private Carlton walked up with Beast. “I

do believe Beast was first,” the handler said with

proud smile. “And Darling last. And now she’s playing

a game of chase?”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into ’er,” Private Kent

said.

Just then the lorry rumbled down the lane. The

handlers jumped out. “Is Sergeant Hanson back?” the

driver called out the open window.

Private Kent strode up. “Wasn’t ’e supposed to

return with you?”

“We couldn’t find him. We thought he might have

walked cross country for some reason.”

Private Kent’s eyes widened under his cap as he

looked down at me. “So that’s what you’re trying to tell

me, eh, girl? Something’s ’appened to the sergeant?”

48

Alison Hart


This time I obeyed when he called me into

the back of the lorry along with two other men. The

canister and its message were forgotten. When we

reached the beach, I jumped out before the truck

stopped. I dashed off, following Sergeant Hanson’s and

my scents.

“Slow down,” Private Kent struggled to keep up

with me. Darting left, I headed into the marsh.

“Over here.” Sergeant Hanson’s cry was soft, but

my keen ears easily heard it. When I reached him, I

nuzzled him and he smiled weakly. His face was white,

his breathing shallow. The sound of rustling

and thrashing from the direction of the beach told me

that Private Kent was not far behind. Still, I didn’t

bark. I left Sergeant Hanson for a brief moment to

alert Private Kent to where we were, and then went

back to the sergeant.

“Found ’im!” Kent hollered. Quickly he bent and

felt Sergeant Hanson’s pulse. “Looks like you’re going

into shock. Glad we got ’ere when we did.”

“Leg’s all messed up.” Sergeant Hanson tried to

49



smile as he struggled to sit up. “I didn’t follow my own

orders to tread carefully.”

“Save your strength,” Private Kent told him. “Pri-

vate Jeeves ’as a medical kit. We’ll get a Tommy splint

on that leg and get you out of ’ere. Might not be bro-

ken, right?”

I lay down beside Sergeant Hanson, warming his

chilled body. All thoughts of Cosham had flown from

my head.

“Darling ’ere brought us,” Private Kent said.

“She’s no messenger dog, that’s a fact. She came in

dead last. But might it be she ’as a different calling?”

He slipped off his tunic and laid it across Sergeant

Hanson’s chest. “I’ve heard they’re training mercy

dogs. Dogs that ’elp find the wounded. What do you

think of that? Sergeant?” He patted the man’s cheeks

as if he were a dog. “Stay awake, now. Don’t want you

losing consciousness.”

I looked up as the others arrived. Private Jeeves

slipped his pack from his back as he walked. Another

soldier carried a stretcher under his arm.

50

Alison Hart


“Darling’ll wear a red cross on her jacket and ’elp

soldiers at the Front,” Kent continued as Private Jeeves

kneeled and opened the bag, “just like she ’elped you,

right Sergeant? And I’d be proud to train ’er.”

“As I would…” Sergeant Hanson’s voice trailed off

and his eyes drifted shut. His fingers laced themselves

in my ruff. He didn’t let go, and I didn’t leave his side

until he was safely on the stretcher.

51



End of April 1917

Boom! Dirt blew skyward right in front of me.

I scooted around the blast, intent on my mission:

Find the wounded.

Boom! A second blast ripped the earth, and rocks

rained on my head like hail. I sank into a ditch,

waited, ran again. Ahead I saw a soldier’s helmet above

the tall beach grass, and then a muddy boot and

khaki-colored trouser leg.

I nosed the leg, feeling for warmth. “Good girl,

204,” the soldier murmured when I got within

his reach. He removed a canteen of water from the

Chapter Six



53

saddlebags strapped to my back and took a sip. When

he was done, I raced back the way I had come.

Coils of barbed wire blocked my way, but I leaped

over them without hesitation. Suddenly the rat-a-tat-

tat of a machine gun sounded in front of me. I

crouched, making myself small, and crawled into a

ditch. When all was quiet, I dashed toward a stone

fence. I jumped the fence and then zigzagged across

the last stretch. Leaping into a trench, I landed at Pri-

vate Kent’s feet.

“It’s 204,” someone said behind me. “The first dog

to report back.”

Immediately I lay down. That was the signal that

I had found a wounded soldier. Private Kent clipped

on my leash.

Sergeant Hanson stood behind him. He was

propped on crutches, his trouser leg torn to reveal a

white cast from ankle to knee. “That’s Darling,” he

said in a low voice. I could hear his pride.

Private Kent lifted me up and set me on the para-

pet, the top edge of the trench. I waited while he


climbed the ladder. Then I led the way as he and two

stretcher bearers and an orderly followed. The trip I

had made in minutes seemed to take them forever.

Private Kent had to cut the barbed wire I had leaped

over. Several times we flattened ourselves to the

ground as the zing of gunfire filled the air. But I didn’t

flag in my purpose: find the wounded soldier.

Finally I saw his helmet. Straining at the leash, I

pulled Private Kent forward. The soldier pretending

to be wounded grinned. “She passed this drill with

flying colors, eh, Private Kent?”

54



55

He nodded. “Neither bombs nor gunfire stopped

’er. It were a good thing we switched her training from

a messenger dog to a mercy dog.” Even the stretcher

bearers were grinning at me as they helped the

“wounded” man to his feet. Pleased, I sat back on my

haunches and begged as if at the butcher shop. But this

time it wasn’t for bones. It was for praise. I knew that

I had done something special during this practice.

The orderly shrugged on his pack and patted my

head.

“Don’t fuss over ’er too much,” Private Kent

warned. “Mercy dogs aren’t pets.” His voice was firm,

but he was still smiling as he gave me a treat of liver.

“Sergeant Hanson’ll be pleased. A bit sweet on this

one, ’e is. Plans on taking ’er to France himself as soon

as ’is leg is mended.” He puffed out his chest proudly.

“The sergeant’s been assigned to the sectional kennels

at the front lines in Belgium. I’m going with ’im.”

“By then the war may be over,” the orderly said.

“Now that the Americans have joined the fight.”

The soldier who’d played the role of a wounded


Alison Hart

56

man snorted loudly as he lay down on the canvas

stretcher. “About time. America declared war on the

Germans in April. Where’ve their troops been all this

time?”

“The British had to lose thousands more soldiers

before bloody Wilson would send his precious army

to Europe,” the orderly said bitterly.

“France and the other allies have lost too many men

as well,” the soldier on the stretcher said. “Don’t you

add to the numbers when you’re over there, Private

Kent.”

“I plan on keepin’ me ’ead away from those German

bullets,” Private Kent replied. “But 204 ’ere won’t be

so lucky. She’ll be searching for wounded in no man’s

land.”

All four swung their gazes to me, and their faces

were no longer smiling. “So let’s ’ope the war’s over

soon,” he added softly as he stroked my head, “or this

lass will be one more casualty.”


Mid-May 1917

The road was muddy beneath my paws, the sky

overcast. Silence surrounded us as we walked

through what was once a village like Cosham. The

shops and houses were gone. All that stood were

chimneys jutting into the sky like leafless trees and

jagged brick walls and skeletal frames that held no

roofs.

There was a small herd of us—handlers and dogs.

We had traveled by boat across the English Channel and

landed in a place Private Kent had called “France.” From

there we rode by railway and lorry into the countryside.

Chapter Seven


Once across the border into the place called “Belgium,”

we walked, except for Sergeant Hanson, who rode in a

motorbike sidecar. The railcars and lorries were packed

with ammunition and troops heading to the Front, and

there was no room for dogs.

At first I was happy to be walking. The air ruffled

my fur and filled my nose with new scents. But soon

the view grew stark despite the full flush of spring.

Trees were broken in half, craters of mud pocked the

farmland, and the smell of burned wood was strong.

A few people poked through the ruins of the vil-

lage, looking for something they could salvage. Their

faces were dirty and forlorn and their stares unwel-

coming. A cart piled high with people and belongings

rumbled past, pulled by one skinny horse. I paused

when I saw the faces of two children peering from the

top. I wagged my tail in greeting, but they didn’t smile

as they passed us by. Then the sharp crack of the whip

over the cob’s back made me shy away.

“Refugees headed to France,” Private Carlton said.

He stood beside us with Beast, who had passed his

58

Alison Hart


messenger dog training with flying colors. Private

Reeves held Tweed’s leash. Like me, she’d been trained

as a mercy dog.

Except for the rumble of engines and tromp of

boots, the village was silent. Finally Private Kent

spoke. “No wonder the Belgians aren’t friendly. They

didn’t ask for this war. The Germans just invaded and

took over. And now ’ere we are.”

Private Reeves snorted. “We need to be here,

invited or not. We have to push the Huns clear out of

Belgium before there’s nothing left of the country.”

Sergeant Hanson signaled us to stop and rest in the

shade of a wall. A line of horse-drawn wagons and

trucks, both loaded with supplies, snaked past us. Pri-

vate Kent pulled off his haversack. He pulled out his

tin cup and took his canteen from his cartridge belt.

After pouring me some water, he fed me a sliver of dried

liver. Then he had his own snack of bully beef and

crackers.

Sergeant Hanson ruffled my fur and slipped me a

treat, too. His brace was off but he still favored his leg.

59



Alison Hart

60

“We’re nearing Messines,” he said to the group. “Once

we’re at headquarters, there will be no rest. We’ve

been assigned to the 10th Battalion Worcestershire

Regiment.”

Murmurs of approval went around. “Mates from

close to me ’ome,” one handler said.

“The soldiers have been building up trenches and

laying tracks. More supplies are needed for a major

attack under General Plumer,” Sergeant Hanson con-

tinued. “The Allies are planning on taking Messines

Ridge from the Germans.”

“And we want to be part of it,” another handler

said.

“Then let’s continue. The main camp is five miles

farther. That’s where headquarters and the dog kennel

are.”

We marched on, and soon the silence was shat-

tered. A group of planes soared overhead like migrating

geese. I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire in

the distance, followed by louder blasts that I knew

were bombs—like the ones used in our training.



61

Our pace picked up and I could feel the tension

in Private Kent’s grip on my leash.

From behind us came a rattling and roaring as I’d

never heard before. Private Kent stopped and turned.

“Well, I’ll be a kippered ’erring. Never thought I’d lay

eyes on a tank, and ’ere are a dozen coming right at

us.”

“Those are the new Mark IVs,” Private Reeves

said. He whistled in amazement as Tweed cowered

behind his legs. “Easy lass. They’re on our side.”


Alison Hart

62

Everyone stepped back and Sergeant Hanson’s

driver pulled off the road. As the tanks passed, the

handlers cheered. I growled, upset by the giant rolling

things and their deafening noise. A man poked his

head from the top and saluted. His face was totally

covered by a helmet and visor.

The handlers saluted back. “We should’ve had a

tank at the War Dog School,” Private Carlton said.

“To get the dogs used to the sight.”

Unafraid, Beast lunged for a clanking track as it

rolled past, churning up the earth.

“The dogs will soon be seeing things that no one

can train them for.” Sergeant Hanson frowned. “Let’s

hope they stay true.”

As we moved along, the road and roadsides became

even more crowded. Men unloaded huge howitzer

shells from railway cars onto wagon beds. Mules car-

ried boxes of ammunition in packs on their backs.

Shirtless soldiers lifted rocks and sandbags into truck

beds. Two dogs hauled a cart loaded with buckets of



63

water for the workers. The dogs had once been hand-

some mastiffs, but now their coats were dull and their

ribs showed. They reminded me of Cosham strays—

and Rags.

All the while gunfire boomed in the distance and

smoke billowed in the air.

We slowed to let a ragged group of soldiers march

wearily past us, heading in the direction we had come.

Some had bandages around their eyes and were

guided by their comrades. Behind them, soldiers

pushed hand carts holding unconscious men, draped

inside like sacks of grain.

“Looks like those lads were hit by poison gas.” I

felt Private Kent shudder. I knew the word “gas.” We

had practiced wearing our masks at the War Dog

School. Though they said it would protect me, I hated

the way it felt around my muzzle.

A familiar cooing noise made me glance sharply

to the left. Four soldiers walked briskly alongside the

road. On their backs were square baskets with lids.


They were full of birds. Pigeons!

I hadn’t seen a pigeon since we’d left France. Now

here were baskets of them. What were the pesky birds

doing here? Several fluttered their wings, and I heard

more cooing. I began to dance in place. Maybe war

would be fun after all.

“Settle down, girl,” Private Kent said. “Those

pigeons aren’t to chase. They carry messages, like Beast.

We’re almost there, thank the Queen,” he added. “Me

boots are rubbing me ’eels raw.”

Soon we arrived “there”—a farmhouse surrounded

by sheds, a barn, and rows and rows of tents, large and

small.

Sergeant Hanson climbed from the sidecar. “Head -

quarters,” he said. “The kennels are on the far side of

the barn.”

Headquarters was almost like a village. We passed

a bakery in a tent, where workers were loading loaves

into the wagons. A team of horses pulled a second

wagon, already loaded, toward the fighting. I hoped

that somewhere there was a wagon full of beef bones.

64

Alison Hart


“The largest tent houses the Advanced Dressing

Station for the wounded,” Sergeant Hanson explained.

“First they are treated at Regimental Aid Posts at the

Front. They then come here or go to Field Ambulances

far behind the line. Severe cases are sent on to general

hospitals.”

As we passed by the tent, I smelled blood and anti-

septic. I had been taught to recognize those scents, to

find warmth and a pulse, and then to lead my handler

to the wounded soldier. The orderlies and stretcher

bearers would follow us, carrying the medicine and

bandages.

Under a lone tree beside the barn, horses were

picketed to a line. Nosebags hung from their heads.

Like the mastiffs, they were skinny and worn, and

many lay in the straw as if exhausted.

Finally we came to the kennels. Slatted crates

stood in two rows. Dogs were tied to some; others

were empty. Unlike the dogs at the War School, these

did not bark or leap. They were curled in front on

dusty blankets and barely looked our way.

65



A soldier, his uniform marked like Sergeant

Hanson’s came up to us. “I’m Sergeant Cary-Hough,”

he said. “Good to see you. We are in need of a fresh

dog squad.”

“We have twenty dogs and twenty handlers,”

Sergeant Hanson said. “All are ready to work.”

Sergeant Cary-Hough nodded as if pleased. “The

dogs have been invaluable here as messengers, scouts,

and sentries. Initially the generals and the troops were

skeptical, but the animals proved themselves time and

time again. The Germans have kept up constant firing

against us all month. There have been many casual-

ties, and this dog squad has worked valiantly and is

slated to be relieved.”

“And the dogs that aren’t here?” Private Kent eyed

the crates, many of which were empty. “They’re still

at the Front?”

Sergeant Cary-Hough shook his head. “Alas, only

one in four messenger dogs makes it through. Horses,

soldiers, dogs, pigeons—none are spared. We have a

small veterinary corps housed behind the line, but

66

Alison Hart


they are overworked, as we all are.”

Private Kent reached down and stroked my head

as the sergeant continued to talk.

“Each dog is assigned a crate. The numbers are

nailed to the front. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the 10th

Regiment will be heading forward to the trenches near

Wytschaete. You will go with them. On June 7, we will

attack Messines Ridge in force. The Germans have had

a stronghold on the ridge since 1914. If we are to be

victorious, there is much to be done beforehand.”

Sergeant Cary-Hough led the handlers and dogs

toward the crates. Private Kent removed my leash and

tied me to a crate with a rope. “The tag on top says

204,” he muttered. “That should say ‘Darling,’ right,

girl?”

I wagged my tail. He left after saying my favorite

word—dinner—and I began to sniff my new home.

Home. Faded images of Robert, Katherine, Mum,

Father, and Baby filled my head. I thought of my cozy

basket by the kitchen cooker and the nest I made on

Katherine’s quilt when Mum wasn’t looking. I thought

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Alison Hart

68

of playing in the streets of Cosham with Rags and beg-

ging for bones at the butchers.

Now home was a straw bed, a patch of dirt, and a

bowl in front of a wooden crate. And worse, I could

smell the dog that had lived there before me. I was not

fearless like Beast, nor cowardly like Tweed. But some-

how I knew that the dog that had lived in this home

before me was no longer alive—and it made me trem-

ble.


May 20, 1917

The stench hit me as I followed Private Kent down

the trench. Sweat. Dirt. Feet. Rotten flesh. Rats.

Fear. With my sense of smell, one hundred times

stronger than a human’s, I could sniff out the lice hid-

den in the seams of uniforms and strands of hair.

Soldiers filed along the trenches—earthen lanes

that twisted to the right and left of us. The sun glinted

on their green helmets, making me think of the bee-

tles that scurried about in the fissures of the chalk

mines at home.

Chapter Eight


Alison Hart

70

From headquarters, I had followed Private Kent,

Private Carlton and Beast, and six other dogs and han-

dlers. Sergeant Cary-Hough escorted us down the

communication trench, then through support trenches

filled with supplies and leading to the front line. In

some places we walked on wood duckboards. Other

places we slogged through mud. When we were close

to the Front, the sergeant introduced us to the Battal-

ion Medical Officer. Wounded soldiers would first be

carried to him at the RAP, or Regimental Aid Post, a

fancy name for a space with a plank floor and dirt walls

and roof, outfitted with two bunks and a few medical

supplies.

Finally we reached the front line—the trench closest

to the enemy. The other dogs and handlers turned

south. “We’re headed north toward Wytschaete and the

Germans,” Sergeant Cary-Hough said.

Ladders led into and out of the trenches on the

sides facing the fighting. The walls were reinforced

with logs and sandbags. The soldiers on guard duty


stood tall, the barrels of their rifles resting on the para-

pet. Occasionally, one would shoot a volley in the

direction of the German line. Enemy gunfire con-

stantly zinged overhead.

The soldiers who weren’t on duty reached out to

pat me, their fingers grimy with gunpowder and dirt.

Some stood, eating from their mess kits. Others

71


wrote letters, cleaned guns, or polished boots. Most

napped, propped up against trench walls or boxes of

ammunition.

Finally, we reported to Second Lieutenant Luck-

man of the 10th Worcestershire Regiment.

“Pleased to see fresh dogs,” he said. “Let’s hope we

won’t need them. As soon as it’s dark, two parties of

hand-picked soldiers are raiding a German bunker.”

I could feel Private Kent’s anticipation. Beside me,

Beast quivered, as if ready to leap from the trench and

take a message back to headquarters. I wasn’t quite as

excited about being so near the shooting. Thoughts

of the war dogs who hadn’t returned stayed with me.

“Dog 204 will wait with the medical corps in the

dugout.” The second lieutenant pointed to wooden

stairs leading into the dark. “And 203 will come with

the raiding party.”

“The Beast and I are ready for action,” Private

Carlton said. Private Kent seemed just as happy to lead

me down the few steps further into the dank earth.

Cigarette smoke filled the small underground room.

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Alison Hart


Inside stood two men wearing armbands marked with

a red cross and an SB for stretcher bearer, and an

orderly who also wore a red cross. They nodded. “I’m

Robert,” one of the stretcher bearers said. “Welcome to

the Front.”

I took notice when I heard the name. I thought of

my Robert and Katherine. Would I see them ever again?

“Where waiting feels like eternity,” the orderly

added.

“And the biscuits are hard as rocks,” the second

stretcher bearer said, trying to bite into one. “I’m

Private Thacker. That’s Churchill.” He nodded at the

orderly. “And Sir Robert there introduced himself like

the gent he is.”

“We’re glad to see a Red Cross dog,” Churchill said.

“No man’s land is pitted with craters, bunkers, and

abandoned funk ’oles. It’s easy to lose the wounded.

The last dog ’elped us bring back every last one.”

I was glad that Private Kent didn’t ask what had

happened to the last dog. Instead he ruffled my ears

reassuringly and said, “Darling—204—is the best.”

73



Robert sighed. “Darling.That’s how I start my let-

ters back home to my sweetheart.” Leaning forward,

he stroked my head. “Will you be the good luck I

need to get back to England and the girl I love?”

“That’s all the lad talks about,” Thacker said. “Me,

I’ve got a wife and a passel of kids. My army wages

keep the lot from starving.”

“When they pays us,” Churchill grunted.

Thacker cuffed him. “Quit grumblin’. At least

you’re not some poor infantry bloke racing across no

man’s land in the pitch dark. Unless a shell or bomb

hits this dugout, we’re safe.”

“And thank the Queen the mud’s dried,” Robert

said. “Last skirmish it took four of us to move one

wounded man to safety. Sunk in to our knees, we did.

Made perfect targets. The blasted Huns don’t care if

you have a red cross on your arm or not.”

I shivered. Private Kent made me lie down beside

his leg. Pulling a piece of dried liver from his pocket,

he fed it to me. I was glad for my handler. No matter

what the situation, he always looked out for me.

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Alison Hart


For what seemed like forever, we waited in the dim

hole. Water dripped from the roof. A rat scurried in

the corner. Finally, I put my head down and closed

my eyes, trying to shut out the noise, the smell, the

rats—and the worry.

9

Private Kent woke me with an urgent tug on my leash.

I jumped to my feet and followed him up the stairs. It

was night, starlit and bright. Soldiers lined the trench

as far to the right as I could see. Their faces were

solemn. To the left was the very end of the trench. Beast

and Private Carlton stood there, waiting for orders. Sec-

ond Lieutenant Luckman strode behind the small

group of soldiers on the right, giving words of encour-

agement. Then he lifted his rifle and climbed the lad-

der. “Over the top, lads,” he ordered briskly. “We’re

headed to Nag’s Nose. Let’s get those Germans.”

All along the trench, soldiers scrambled up the lad-

ders, stepped over the parapet, and disappeared into

the night. I strained at the end of the leash, wanting

75



to climb with them, wanting to see what was happen-

ing. Private Carlton and an infantry soldier lifted

Beast to the top of the parapet. The big hound bristled

with excitement as the infantryman took his leash and

hurried up the ladder after him. Private Carlton stayed

in the trench. If a message needed to be sent from the

small raiding party, Beast would carry it back to his

handler.

I stayed behind with Privates Kent and Carlton,

the orderly, and the stretcher bearers. A small reserve

troop from the 10th remained as well. They manned

the trench, their rifles pointed in the direction the

raiding party had gone, ready to act as reinforcements

if needed.

All was silent. Then shots rang out. A volley of

machine-gun fire ripped through the night. I jumped

at the deafening blast of a bomb. Then silence again.

Had Beast and the others made it across no man’s

land? Would there be wounded for me to find? There

was no way to know what was happening, and all of

us in the trench held our breaths, waiting.

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Alison Hart


Just when I thought I could wait no longer, we

heard a shout. Private Kent climbed the ladder and

poked his head over the top of the parapet.

“It’s our boys! All of ’em!” he called down after

counting out loud. “Didn’t lose a man. Wait, there’s

more coming back than left. Well, I’ll be a plum pud-

ding! They’ve brought prisoners with ’em.”

I whined softly, wanting to see. Private Kent lifted

me to the top. I looked from one soldier to the next,

finally spotting Beast strutting beside Private Carlton.

“Fine job, Tommies!” a reserve soldier shouted. The

men of the raiding party whooped in return. I danced

on the parapet, greeting them. Smiles stretched their

grimy faces under their helmets.

Suddenly the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun made

them flatten to the ground. They crawled the rest of

the way, then hurried down the ladder, eager to tell

the story of the raid.

“Surprised eight Germans, hiding in a bunker.”

“The 33rd Fusiliers.”

“Bayoneted six. They died without a peep.”

77



Alison Hart

78

“Bet they wish they’d never met a Tommy.”

“Two surrendered.” The last soldier nodded toward

the two men in gray uniforms who stood with their

heads hanging. “Lucky for them they did, or they’d be

dead, too.”

Second Lieutenant Luckman was the last to climb

down the ladder into the safety of the trench. “Excel-

lent job,” he told his men. “That’s the proper way to

win the war. No mucking about.” Then he turned to

the two German soldiers. “Take these prisoners back

to headquarters.”

Private Kent kneeled beside me. “Take a good

look, lass,” he said. “There’s the enemy.”

I stared at the prisoners, wanting to growl. But

then I saw how worn and dazed they looked. And

when I studied their faces, I saw that the two hated

Germans were just boys, not much older than Robert.


June 2, 1917

For a week, we’d been waiting at headquarters—

drilling for the day when we would be in service.

We were assigned to the 3rd Battalion Worcestershire,

B Company. Twice we had been sent to the Front, but

we hadn’t been called into action on either trip.

Tweed, however, had seen plenty of action during

her mission. Private Reeves gave glowing accounts of

how she had bravely led the orderlies to the wounded.

I could sense Tweed’s new confidence. Still, when she’d

returned to the kennel, she’d slept as if exhausted. Even

a filled dinner bowl wouldn’t rouse her.

Chapter Nine


Alison Hart

80

When we were called to the Front again, Sergeant

Hanson accompanied us. He was in charge of our

group of six dogs and handlers. As we made our way

down a muddy trench, a small brown dog hurtled past

me. He dove beneath a crate of ammunition and I

heard the snap of his jaws. The noise startled me. Rags

had killed rats with a snap just like that.

The dog emerged, his prey hanging limp from his

mouth. I let out a yelp of joy. It was Rags!

Instantly, he dropped the dead rat and sprang on

top of me. Wrestling and chewing, we greeted each

other while Sergeant Hanson and Private Kent stared

in wonder.

“Why, she knows that mutt!” Private Kent said.

“That’s our mascot,” one of the soldiers in B Com-

pany said.

Several of his buddies gathered round. “Private

Rags,” another man added.

“Keeps this place clean of mice and rats.”

One of them pointed to lines scratched in the dirt

wall. “Sure enough, ’e’s up to a hundred.”


“Best soldier in our company. Came from the

Battersea Dogs Home.”

“Now he’s got a home with us.”

Rags left me and ran from soldier to soldier. Each

man patted and praised him. I wiggled with delight.

Now I could stop worrying about my friend. He

finally had a family.

“Time to say your farewells now, Darling,” Private

Kent said. “Come.”

Rags and I tussled one last time. Picking up the

rat, he held it proudly in his mouth. That was the pic-

ture I kept in my mind as I trotted down the trench

again. Rags had his job in the army, and so did I.

Once we were at the jumping-off point, we met

Lieutenant Hudson, commander of the new company.

He gave everyone their orders. “Our target is the

German communication line we call Nutmeg Avenue

and a supply line named Nutmeg Support. Wire cut-

ters have been sent ahead. When it’s dark, we’ll go over

the parapet and lay down in the open. We’ll listen for

the British artillery to let loose, and then we’ll dash

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Alison Hart


forward and bomb the lines.”

Again Private Kent and I waited in a dugout with

the men from the medical corp. He checked his

equipment, then refolded the bandages in my saddle-

bags. An orderly heated water from his canteen to

make tea. A stretcher bearer wrote something on the

back of sardine tin label. “Want to hear my poem?”

he asked when he was finished.

No one replied, but he read it aloud anyway.

Thirty days the earth was blasted,

and the British Tommies fell.

Thirty nights we dared not rest.

We waited for the shell

that signaled our comrades’ deaths.

“Don’t rhyme proper,” the orderly said.

“‘Fell’ and ‘shell’ do,” the stretcher bearer protested.

“Where’s mention of the bloody rations?” the

other stretcher bearer complained. “If I eat one more

tin of cold bully beef, I’ll mutiny.”

83



“I thought your poem were right powerful,”

Private Kent said solemnly.

“Thank you, mate.” Folding the paper, the

stretcher bearer slipped it in his pocket. “If I die, you

can send it to the Wipers Times.”

“The Wipers Times?” Private Kent asked.

“You haven’t heard of our trench magazine?” The

orderly pulled another folded paper from his pocket.

“Named after the town of Ypres, which us stupid Brits

call Wipers ’cause we can’t pronounce the Belgian

name. The mag’s filled with good old English humor.”

He opened the magazine. “Listen to today’s weather

report. ‘From five to one—mist. From eleven to

two—east wind. From eight to one—chlorine gas.’”

Laughter rose in the small earthen room, and as

the orderly continued to read aloud, I dozed, com-

forted by the cheerful voices.

At dark, Sergeant Hanson roused us. We hurried

up the steps from the dugout to the trench. Sensing the

tension when we emerged, I stayed close by Private

Kent’s side.

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Alison Hart


Lieutenant Hudson was inspecting his men, who

stood tall and ready despite their weary stares and dirt-

streaked uniforms. I scanned their faces. Some were as

young as the German soldiers who had been taken pris-

oner. Others looked as if they’d been fighting forever.

“It’s time,” the lieutenant finally said. “Let’s mop

them up.” With that, Company B streamed over the

top.

Private Kent and I, Private Reeves and Tweed, and

a messenger dog and his handler stayed behind. Ser-

geant Hanson went with Company B and the remain-

ing handlers and dogs.

Almost immediately, a barrage of heavy British

artillery split the air. “Right on schedule,” Private Kent

said. “Company B should be nearing its target.” I pic-

tured the soldiers running forward in the dark. The

Germans firing blindly. Soldiers on both sides falling.

The whine of an incoming shell made me cringe.

“Gas!” The sentries’ warning cries rang up and

down the trench. Private Kent didn’t need to hear the

word twice. He yanked his mask over his head, then

85



reached in his canvas bag for mine. Quickly, he buckled

it on me. I hated that mask. I could barely see out and

it pinched my muzzle. But when I saw a soldier clutch

his throat because he had been too slow to obey the

warning, I was glad Private Kent had reacted swiftly.

Bombs continued to rend the air. Suddenly a hor-

rendous boom crashed near us. Above and beyond the

trench, earth rose in the air as high as Portsdown Hill.

“The Huns are blowing up the howitzer battery!”

someone hollered. Private Kent covered me with his

body as dirt and metal rained over us. When he

straightened, there was blood on his cheek. I nuzzled

my head against him. “Just a nick, lass,” he assured me.

Finally a breeze carried the gas fumes away, and the

sentries’ all-clear cry ran up and down the trench.

Slowly, men began to take off their masks. Private Kent

unbuckled mine but kept it ready by his side. Only one

soldier seemed sick; an orderly quickly led him away.

Flares rose from the German front, lighting the

dark. “They know something’s up,” Private Kent whis-

pered. Minutes later, the shrieks of incoming shells and

86

Alison Hart


the thuds of bombs hitting the ground reached my ears.

The earth shook. Again, I heard the rapid fire of a

machine gun. I was used to these sounds, but this time

they seemed closer. My heart beat faster and I huddled

closer to Private Kent.

As silently as they had left, B Company returned

with twelve prisoners. I spotted Sergeant Hanson and

Private Carlton, who supported a limping British sol-

dier between them. Blood stained the leg of the man’s

trouser. Beast trailed behind.

I hopped up and greeted them with wagging tail.

Sergeant Hanson leaned down and held me for a sec-

ond. His face was grave. “Soon it’ll be your turn to

prove yourself, Darling,” he said.

“We cleared the walking wounded,” Lieutenant

Hudson told the medical corps. “But without torches

to light the way, we had to leave behind those too

injured to call out. It’s up to you and the dogs to find

them.”

All eyes turned to Tweed and me.

For a brief moment, terror rippled down my spine.

87



Then I spun toward the ladder—this was what I had

been trained for.

Without hesitation, Private Kent and Sergeant

Hanson lifted me to the top of the parapet. “Begone,”

Sergeant Hanson said, a tremor in his voice that only I

could hear.

Then Private Kent unsnapped my leash, and I

raced into the black night.

A flare ripped through the sky and for an instant

I could see the ghostly stretch of land before me. It

was riddled with holes and heaped with stones, earth,

and shrapnel.

I ran, slowing when I saw the glint of wire. We’d

been taught to leap over, crawl under, or go around

the sharp barbs that caught fur and tore skin.

Spotting a dark shape draped over the wire, I belly-

crawled to it. When I pressed my nose against a hand,

there was no sign of life. Quickly, I found a break in

the coils made by the wire cutters and moved on. I

was in no man’s land.

Alison Hart

88



89

I lifted my head and sniffed the air. Among the

smells of spent artillery and disturbed earth, I detected

a different scent. There…to my right. My eyesight was

keen, but the shadows made by the looming mounds

and twisted trunks confused me. Airplane engines

roared overhead. Gunfire strafed the ground in the

direction of our front line. The Germans were fighting

back.

There was no time to lose. My senses told me there

was a wounded soldier nearby, trapped in no man’s

land, and I had to find him.


June 2, 1917

Where was the wounded soldier? Had he fallen

in a hole? Had he pulled himself to safety

behind a pile of rocks?

Hoping to pick up a trail, I kept my nose to the

ground. The smells of burnt earth, gunpowder, and a

hundred boot soles grew confusing. I lifted my head

and zigzagged back and forth at a trot. Whenever

there was a moment’s silence, I stopped to listen.

Blasts made the sky glow. Then a searchlight shone

upward on a German observation balloon. The light

reflected onto the ground and I spotted a figure sitting

against a tree that had been cut in half by shells.

Chapter Ten



91

I ran over. The soldier was slumped sideways,

barely breathing. I recognized one of the young men

from Company B. When I nosed his palm, it was cold,

but there was a faint flutter at his wrist. He was alive.

I pawed his arm, hoping to rouse him. My saddle-

bags held water and bandages. But this soldier needed

more help than I could give.

I nuzzled his hand one last time, hoping he would

understand that I had found him—and that I would

return.

Leaving him, I raced in a straight line for the

barbed wire and dove through the same opening I’d

used before. I didn’t need to follow my tracks. I knew

the fastest way to the trench.

Then a shell whistled overhead. Boom! The impact

split the earth. Dirt and shrapnel blew me into the air.

I landed hard on my side. Stunned, I lay panting.

Raining earth covered me like a coat.

“Darling. Come ’ere, girl.” Private Kent was crawl-

ing on his belly toward me. I lifted my head at the

sound of his voice. “Are you all right?” He brushed the


dirt off me and I struggled upright. “We’re thirty yards

away.”

Standing, I shook off the rest of the dirt. My ribs

ached but I had a job to do—a soldier to save. Quickly,

I lay back down.

“You found ’im, didn’t you? Stretcher bearers,

double-time!” he called hoarsely. The bearers scram-

bled over the parapet.

Private Kent clipped the leash to my collar. We set

off again, leading the way through the dark. The wire

cutter reached the barbed coils right after we did. Snip-

ping and yanking, he cleared a new path. Then he

beckoned us onward.

I rushed ahead, tugging at the leash. Often we had

to stop and wait for the men from the medical corps.

Smoke from the bombs hung like fog, and the soldiers

could not light their way with torches lest they draw

the Germans’ attention. The orderly stumbled into a

shell hole and had to be pulled out. Private Kent

tripped over a root and fell to his knees. I whined

encouragement. Hurry, hurry.

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Alison Hart


Gunfire ripped past us. We all hit the ground and

froze.

“We must be near the German front,” the orderly

whispered, fear making his voice quiver.

Private Kent nodded. Using his arms to pull himself

forward, he wormed behind a pile of rubble. The

stretcher bearers crawled after him, dragging the rolled-

up stretcher. Last came the wire cutter and the orderly,

panting like a dog. The five exhausted men leaned

against the rubble and waited for the firing to stop.

No man’s land was treacherous.

After a moment’s silence, I leaped up again. Beyond

the pile, I spotted the jagged tree. I wanted to bark

There! Over there! But my training had taught me that

enemy rifles would aim at any sound.

Instead, when Private Kent stood again, I crouched

down and then darted madly toward the tree, pulling

my handler behind me. He gestured for the others to

follow.

Hunched over, the five ran to the soldier. As soon

as they reached him, they kneeled, trying not to be

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Alison Hart

94

seen. The orderly checked the wounded soldier’s pulse

and gently touched his forehead. The young man

groaned in pain. I was glad to see he was alive.

“Head wound,” the orderly whispered. Quickly he

poured antiseptic on a wool pad and held it to the

man’s temple. Private Kent helped him tie a strip of

bandage to hold the pad in place. The stretcher bear-

ers carefully lifted the soldier onto the canvas sling.

Staying low, they scurried off.

It was then that I heard a faint voice. “Hello? Over

here!”

Private Kent had started after the orderly so I knew

he hadn’t heard the sound. I darted in front of him

and lay down at his feet. He frowned at me and jerked

at the leash. “Darling, ’eel!” he ordered with another

jerk. “We need to get back before we get killed!”

I refused to get up. I refused to obey. I knew there

was another wounded man.

I gazed beseechingly up at my handler. His eye-

brows rose as if he finally understood, and he unclipped

the leash. I sped in the direction of the voice. I strained



to hear it again, but now all was silent except for the

drone of airplane engines overhead.

Confused, I stopped and glanced around the stark,

shadowy landscape. Before me was a crater made by

an explosion. Around me was leveled ground. There

was no sign of a person. Had it been the enemy trying

to confuse me? Was I leading Private Kent into a trap?

“Hello? Down here!”

That was no German voice. Dropping to my belly,

I peered over the edge of the crater. A soldier stared

up at me. His leg was bent, just like Sergeant Hanson’s

had been.


Alison Hart

96

I bounded down the gravelly side. When I reached

the bottom, the soldier stroked my head. Tears filled

his eyes. “You’re a better sight than General Plumer

himself,” he whispered.

Private Kent half-slid, half-fell to the bottom.

“Blimey, ’ow’d you get into this mess?”

“Germans shot me.” The soldier nodded toward

his arm. The sleeve was torn and soaked with blood.

“Knocked me clean into this hole. The fall broke my

leg, but tumbling down here saved me from getting

riddled with bullets.”

Private Kent opened my saddlebag and pulled out

bandages. He cut off the man’s bloody sleeve with his

knife and cleaned and wrapped the wound.

“I’m Private Bingham, 3rd Battalion. Born and

raised in Worcester.”

“Private Kent.”

The soldier gestured toward me. “And my

guardian angel?”

“Darling, number 204, War Dog.” I could hear

the pride in my handler’s voice. Frowning, he studied



97

Private Bingham’s leg. “I don’t ’ave a splint. We’ll ’ave

to stabilize it with me bayonet.”

I waited patiently as Private Kent worked on

Private Bingham’s leg. Occasionally the soldier bit

back a cry of pain.

Closing up my saddlebag, Private Kent sat back.

“Well, Private Bingham, you seem to be of ’earty

stock. I believe you’ll live.” He looked at the soldier’s

leg, glanced toward the top of the crater, then cleared

his throat. “If we can figure a way to get you out of

’ere,” he added, “before the Germans send out a patrol

and take the three of us prisoner.”

“I’d rather die,” Private Bingham said.

“That we agree on, chum.” Private Kent helped

the soldier to his feet. He clipped on my leash.

Private Bingham leaned heavily on my handler’s

side and hopped on one foot. With Private Kent

pushing and me pulling, they made it halfway up the

slope. But then they both slid back to the bottom.

Private Bingham winced, trying not to cry out. Sweat

beaded his forehead.


Alison Hart

98

I nudged Private Kent’s elbow with my nose. The

sky was growing light, and time was running out. He

peered at me for a moment, then took off his cap and

gave it to me. Gently I took it between my teeth.

Then he unsnapped the leash again and I clambered

up the side. When I reached the top, I heard voices.

Without thinking, I dropped in a hollow. A small

troop was walking toward me. Their uniform trousers

were gray, and when I heard a few murmured words,

they didn’t sound like the English soldiers.

Germans. And if they continued walking they

would find the crater and Privates Kent and Bingham.

I had to steer them away.

When they were almost of top of me, I streaked

from the hollow, Private Kent’s cap dangling from my

mouth.

Urgent German commands filled the air. Crack!

crack! My ear stung as if struck by a sharp rock. Twist-

ing and turning, I raced toward camp, using ditches

and rubble as cover. I was fast, but the enemy soldiers’

aim was accurate and bullets singed my fur.


More shots zinged over my head—only these were

coming from the direction of the British trench. “Let

’em feel steel!” cried a small troop of soldiers running

into the clearing. I recognized some of the men from

Company B. The Germans crouched, fired, and then

retreated as quickly as they had arrived.

Sergeant Hanson was the first to find me. Taking

the cap, he beckoned a small party to follow us.

When we reached the crater, the sun was rising.

We were standing in no man’s land, sitting ducks for

the Germans. Everyone knew it, though no words

were spoken.

Sergeant Hanson and three other soldiers slid into

the crater while the rest stood guard. Private Bingham’s

eyes were shut and he was propped against Private

Kent’s shoulder. Sergeant Hanson and Private Kent

made a sling with their arms under the wounded man’s

shoulders. Two other soldiers took his legs. It took them

several tries to climb from the crater. But once out, they

were able to trot to the Allied trench while the other

soldiers guarded their rear.

99



A cheer rose up when we came into view. Two

stretcher bearers climbed up the ladder and hurried

over. Private Bingham was laid on a sheet of canvas

and passed down into the trench.

Lifting me in his arms, Sergeant Hanson handed

me to Private Kent, who had jumped into the trench.

He collapsed against the dirt wall and I flopped on

his lap. Tweed came up and we eagerly snuffled a

greeting. Dust clung to her wiry fur, and I knew that

she’d been busy that night, too.

I crawled from my handler’s lap. My ribs ached

where I had fallen and my mouth was dry. Someone

brought me a tin of water and Private Kent a cup of tea.

“Two sugars in me tea and a crumpet, if you

please,” he said hoarsely. “And me dog would like beef

Wellington.” Rousing laughter rose up all around.

Sergeant Hanson inspected my ear. “You’re now a

wounded soldier,” he told me. “I’m sure it’s painful,

but we’ll patch you up.”

“A Victoria Cross for Private Kent!” one of the sol-

diers called.

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He shook his head. “It weren’t me. It were me war

dog, Darling. She’s the one deserves a medal ’anging

from ’er collar.”

“Three cheers for Darling!” someone sang out.

Now that we were all safe, exhaustion crept

through me. I closed my eyes and slept.

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June 1917

The nick on my ear healed quickly. Zero hour—

the moment when the British would attack the

Germans on Messines Ridge—was nearing. The exact

time was kept secret, but soldiers and support staff

were ordered to begin preparations. Battlefield

rehearsal areas were marked, and the platoons prac-

ticed and drilled. Soldiers hauled out giant howitzers

and set them up under camouflage nets. Ammunition

was stocked, and bread was baked and stored. All the

activity reminded me of the bees on the cowslip

blooms on Portsdown Hill.

Chapter Eleven



103

The Hill was still in my memory. As were the

sheep, Rags, Robert, Katherine, and my cozy bed by

the fireplace. But they were growing hazier each day.

My time on the Front was spent in anxious waiting,

then furious searching. There was little time to dream.

The British repeatedly shelled the German lines.

Between shellings, they sent raiding parties to clear

the enemy’s trenches. Each night, I led Private Kent

or Sergeant Hanson to the fallen. In three days, I

found more than fifteen wounded soldiers. When

they were tucked safely behind British lines, my job

was done. Then I would eat heartily—and sleep.

One night we accompanied the 3rd Australian divi-

sion. The men were strong and their laughter was con-

fident. The dog squad marched with the medical

corps as we followed the Australians to the unit’s

jumping-off point. We then helped stock a Regimen-

tal Aid Post in an old bunker slightly at the rear. I was

fetching a stick one of the orderlies threw when I

heard the plop of a gas shell.

I let out a bark of alarm and Private Kent, who


knew I would not break training, saw the canister. He

began to holler and at the same time he yanked out our

masks. I ran toward him, my eyes burning. This time I

was glad to have the mask pulled over my muzzle.

“Tear gas!” one of the medical men yelled. More

shells plummeted from the sky like giant hailstones.

Many masks were pulled on too late, and soldiers

began to gasp. The command was given to advance

from the area, and the Australians’ march turned into

a gallop. Private Kent and I had orders to return to

headquarters after the RAP was set up. Hurriedly we

left. When the tear gas was far behind us, Private Kent

took off my mask. I rubbed my muzzle and head in

the dirt until they felt clean.

We got in late that night. Private Kent bathed my

eyes, but they still stung and I slept fitfully.

When I awoke the next morning, I saw half-

dressed handlers streaming from their tents. The men

clustered around Sergeant Hanson. I stood at the

entrance to my crate, at the ready. Soon we would be

seeing action.

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105

The handlers huddled for a long time. Finally,

after Beast began to howl for his breakfast, the group

headed toward the field kitchen. Private Kent brought

me my food bowl. He wore no shirt, his suspenders

black lines on his thin white chest.

“Darling, the fight we’ve been waiting for is ’ere,”

he said as he set down the bowl. I tucked into it, gulp-

ing the meat and bread.

“And a massive battle it’ll be. Just think of it—if


the battle were a bucket of water, then you and me,

why we’d be just two drops,” he explained. “The ser-

geant says there are over two thousand big guns and

’owitzers set up over sixteen kilometers. Enough to

blow the Germans to Paris.”

I licked up the last of my breakfast.

Squatting, Private Kent stroked my head. “The

Royal Flying Corps will keep the Germans busy from

the air with their Sopwith fighters, and the tanks will

roll over them on land. You remember those Mark

IVs, lass?”

I wagged my tail, wishing there had been more

meat and less bread.

“There are seventy-seven of those clanking crea-

tures. Only I’m betting the Germans have the same

arsenal. I pity the poor soldiers who have to face

’owitzers, planes, and tanks with only a rifle…” His

voice trailed off and he shook his head sadly. “We

finally know that zero hour is 0300 tomorrow morn.

I fear we’ll be spending all the next day gathering

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what’s left of those brave Tommies who think they can

win against such weapons.”

I had never heard Private Kent speak so long—and

so solemnly. I laid my head on his knee and he ran his

fingers through my fur. “You’re the best partner a bloke

could ask for,” he said, speaking low as if he didn’t want

anyone else to hear. “I just wanted to tell you in case…”

His voice broke. Quickly he stood, coughed behind his

fist, and asked, “Ready for a brushing, girl? Sergeant

Hanson wants the dog squad in tiptop shape.”

I tossed my head playfully, trying to erase the sad

look in his eyes.

“All right then,” he said with a weak grin, “I’ll get

the brush.”

When he left, I glanced at the crate next to me,

where Beast was making a racket. His handler brought

him breakfast and the hound leaped so high that he

almost flipped over. The other dogs began leaping

about, too. Tweed was the only one who didn’t join

in the excitement.

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108

I left Beast to his meat and bread and went over

to Tweed. We sniffed each other, and I could feel her

nervousness. The searching had been hard on the

Airedale. Her toenails were chipped and her eyes were

dull. When she wasn’t working, she paced in front of

her crate, wearing a path in the earth. Even liver treats

from Private Reeves didn’t soothe her.

I whined low in my throat, trying to tell her that

soon it would be over.

Or so I thought.


June 6, 1917

Once again the dog squad was assigned to the

medical corps of the 3rd Battalion Worcester-

shire. The soldiers of the regiment greeted Tweed and

me and the other dogs with hearty hellos, kisses, and

pats while our handlers looked the other way. Orders

were strict: we were not to be pets of the infantry. But

this was a special time. Zero hour was only a few

hours away. I could feel the tension in the soldiers’

hugs. Not one of them knew if he would survive the

massive assault.

Chapter Twelve


The regiment assembled in trenches close to

Nutmeg Avenue, where the soldiers had skirmished

before. I thought of Private Bingham and the many

other wounded soldiers I had found. Were they safe

in hospitals? On a ship bound for home?

“Medical corps waits at the far ends of the front

line,” said Corporal Currell, the officer in charge.

“Because these trenches are newly dug and there was

no time for dugouts, you’ll have to fashion your own

shelter. You’ll be safe there until needed.”

Tweed and I were assigned the south end. With

our handlers, we trudged down lines crowded with

soldiers writing last words and fixing stew over little

round stoves.

“The generals issued new Tommy cookers,” one

of the orderlies said with a roll of his eyes. “Hoping a

bit of tea would make us forget they were sending us

to the front line to die.”

The stew smelled delicious and I licked my lips.

Often Sergeant Hanson would bring me a tin, knowing

it was my favorite. Finally we reached our post at the

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far end of the line. It was sparsely guarded by soldiers.

A few nodded at us as our handlers found places to

sit on ammunition cases under a ledge of rock.

“We’re less than a mile from Messine,” a young

stretcher bearer said as he rolled bandages. He didn’t

sound like Private Kent. “Or what’s left of it,” he

added bitterly. “The entire village has been bombed

and burned to the ground.”

“You’re a Belgium lad?” Private Kent asked.

The young man nodded. “Messines was my home.

We farmed here.” He gestured beyond the trench. “It’s

hard to imagine these fields were once lush with sugar

beets and barley. All our livestock? Gone. All the fam-

ilies? Bombed out. All the homes? Rubble.” He shook

his head sadly, then fell silent.

I lay down next to Tweed. Her head rested on her

paws, but shivers racked her body. I slid closer, hoping

to warm and reassure her.

Private Reeves checked his watch. “It’s 0200 hours.

One hour to go.”

111



The tromp of boots signaled that more troops had

arrived. Cookers and pencils were put away. Rifles and

bayonets were readied. Private Kent checked that our

gas masks were handy, then stroked my head.

The soldiers began to sing softly. Their voices rang

up and down the trench, distracting us from what lay

ahead.

112



113

Bombed last night—bombed the night before.

Gonna get bombed tonight if we

Never get bombed anymore.

When we’re bombed, we’re

Scared as we can be.

Oh blast the bombin’ planes from Germany.

Gassed last night—gassed the night before…

Corporal Currell interrupted the singing and sent

out a small scouting patrol. Silently, the six soldiers

disappeared over the parapet. They hadn’t been gone

long before gunfire rang out in two volleys. I bolted

to my feet.

“The lads must’ve been attacked,” Private Kent

whispered. “The Germans are close.”

We watched and waited until finally five of the sol-

diers rushed back into the trench. “There was a small

platoon of Huns holed up in a bunker. Private Jame-

son was hit,” one told the corporal. “We couldn’t find

him in the dark. If he stays out there, the Germans


will kill him or he’ll be blasted to bits at zero hour.”

Corporal Currell checked his watch. “We have half

an hour to bring him back. Send a dog.”

He looked at Tweed, but I leaped up in front of

him, ears pricked.

Private Kent stood. “Darling will find ’im.” He

unhooked my leash. Holding me under his arm, he

climbed the ladder and set me on the parapet. “Be

quick, girl. Begone.”

Nose to the ground, I tore off. Back and forth I trot-

ted, all my senses at attention as I searched for the fallen

soldier. The sky was still dark, but my eyes gradually

adjusted. The constant barrage of gunfire from the

British lines was deafening. I would have to rely on

sight and smell.

How far could our soldiers have gone? The shots

had seemed so close.

The barbed wire had been cut in anticipation of the

coming assault, so I quickly passed through. The earth

beyond seemed even more shattered. There was no sign

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of life. No green grass, no birds, and no wounded

soldier.

I was taking too long.

Then my nose found a trail of blood. Swiftly I fol-

lowed it to a shell hole. The soldier was alert. When

he saw me, his eyes opened wide. He was holding

both palms against the bloody spot on his thigh where

he had been shot.

“Good dog!” he praised. I sat beside him as he rus-

tled in my saddlebags for bandages and antiseptic. “If

I can just wrap this leg to stop the bleeding, I can fol-

low you back…”

I turned to go fetch the orderlies as I had been

trained to do, but the soldier grabbed my collar. I

could tell he didn’t want me to leave. I didn’t blame

him. No one wanted to be alone in no man’s land.

Looking at my tag, the soldier whispered, “Hello,

204. I’m Private Mike Jameson—”

His introduction was cut short by an unexpected

silence. The rat-a-tat-tat of guns and booms of artillery

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116

had been constant the past few days. This sudden,

deathly quiet was eerie.

Then I heard a faint sound: the trilling of nightin-

gales as they sang before dawn.

My body quivered from nose to tail. Private Jame-

son held his breath. He hugged me to his chest as if

for reassurance. “Heaven help us,” he whispered.


June 7, 1917

Seconds later, the whole world erupted. Boom! A

huge explosion split the air. This was a new

sound, one much larger than the howitzers we were

used to. Boom! The second blast shook the ground

beneath us, and the noise was so loud I cowered closer

to Private Jameson. He bent over me as dirt and rocks

hurtled into the sky and then fell to earth.

Boom! A third explosion ripped the sky and

plumes of flame and smoke burst into the air.

Stunned by the thundering blasts, I shook all over.

“It’s the mines exploding on the ridge under the

Chapter Thirteen


Germans,” he whispered. “I heard rumors that our

engineers have been digging tunnels for months.”

An intense barrage of bullets followed the erup-

tions, as if ten thousand rifles were firing at once. Zero

hour.

I scrambled from underneath the soldier. Dust and

smoke swirled around our heads. He coughed and

then stood shakily to peer from the hole. Though the

sun had been rising, it seemed as dark as night. “Dog

204, I am as lost as a baby,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re going to have to save me one more time.”

Private Jameson crouched low and grabbed my

collar. I led us toward the British trench. He winced

with each step and I could tell he was in pain. But he

did not stop to rest. We scurried across the scorched

earth like frightened mice. Through the smoke, I

could see ghostly images of soldiers rushing past us

toward the German line. They stooped, fired, stood,

and then disappeared into the gray haze.

No one paid any attention to a limping man and

a dog.

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118


Distress flares rose from the German line as the

Allied artillery kept up a fierce hail of bullets. Then I

heard shells rocket toward the British lines as if the

Germans were finally fighting back. Several whistled

close by, and the soldier and I flattened against the

ground. Booms and bursts of dirt beyond us told me

the enemy shells were hitting their targets.

Jumping up again, we continued across the barren

119


land. Crack-crack! The sharp retort of rifles came from

behind us. Crack!

Suddenly, I felt an intense burning above my

shoulder near my collar. My right front leg grew

numb, and I stumbled. Private Jameson held me up.

“Courage, 204.”

Hobbling along together, we reached the barbed

wire that protected the Allied trenches. All was silent

beyond the wire barrier, as if every British and Aus-

tralian soldier had raced forward to attack the enemy.

Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I hurried

through the gap in the wire. Private Jameson followed

close behind. On the other side, I searched for signs of

the trench. Had I gone in the wrong direction? I

turned and my paws sunk deep into soft ground of a

new crater. Startled, I jumped backward. I sniffed the

air, smelling gunpowder, smoke, fresh dirt…and the

wounded.

Yet there was no one in sight.

The gunfire had moved into the distance, and the

nightingales began to sing again. A ray of sun peeked

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through the haze. The private had stopped beside me.

“The trench should be right here,” he whispered, as

confused as I was.

Then I sensed what the last barrage of German

shells had hit. Private Kent, Private Reeves, Tweed,

Beast—had they all been buried? Furiously, I started

digging.

Private Jameson gasped. Falling on all fours, he, too,

began to scrabble at the dirt like a dog. When he

unearthed a flat piece of metal, he used it like a shovel.

The dirt was laced with sharp rocks and shrapnel.

My paws began to bleed. My shoulder ached as if it had

been crushed by a wagon wheel. But I kept digging.

“I found something!” Private Jameson called. An

elbow poked up from the earth.

We dug together. Too slow. Too slow. I had to run for

help.

I raced in the direction the other dogs and handlers

had gone just hours ago. I had to find someone, but

thick smoked filled the air, and I couldn’t see any sign

of life.

121



“Darling!” Sergeant Hanson emerged from the haze.

Behind him, a group of soldiers and orderlies hurried

toward me as well. They carried shovels and entrenching

tools as if they already knew about the cave-in.

I led them back to Private Jameson. He’d uncov-

ered a soldier lying face down in the dirt, his arms

sprawled as if he’d fallen from the sky.

It was Private Kent. I barked, not caring about

orders, not caring about my pain. I heard a muffled

return bark deep within the earth. Tweed!

“There are more!” Private Jameson called. With

everyone digging, we quickly freed Private Kent. Ser-

geant Hanson turned him over. I licked the dirt from

his cheeks, which were warm. Sergeant Hanson felt

his pulse. “He’s alive. Let’s get him transported.”

“Hello!” Sergeant Hanson called into a hole in the

earth. Crouching, I peered into the dark. Private Reeves

and two stretcher bearers looked up at us from a pocket

of air protected by a section of the parapet that had not

collapsed. Tweed was in her handler’s arms. All four

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122



123

were coated in dirt, except for their eyes.

I wagged my tail. Private Reeves grinned. “Lord,

you are a welcome sight!”

“We’ll have you out in a shake, mates,” Sergeant

Hanson said. He backed up to give the other soldiers

room. They dug carefully, not wanting to cause

another cave-in. Private Jameson’s face was ashen. The

bandage on his leg was stained red. “Your war dog

saved my life,” he told Sergeant Hanson.

“She’s our best.” The sergeant frowned at the pri-

vate. “You need medical attention. The orderly will

escort you back to the RAP.”

I went back to digging. The burning in my shoul-

der spread until my body was wracked with tremors,

but I couldn’t quit. Finally the hole was wide enough

to pull the soldiers and Tweed out.

Tweed greeted me with a lick and nosed my

shoulder. I knew she smelled my wound. I jerked

away, desperate to uncover the others.

“It was Private Kent who saved us,” Private Reeves


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124

said as he was hoisted out. “He heard the shells coming.

He positioned himself on top of us so we wouldn’t be

buried.”

I limped over to check on Private Kent, but the

stretcher bearers were trotting off with him toward

a horse-drawn ambulance. As I started after them,

Sergeant Hanson called me back. “No, Darling.

There’s nothing you can do now. They’ll take care of

him.”

I hesitated.

“You are needed here to find the wounded,” he

continued, sounding tired. “Messines Ridge has been

taken—but the battle is not yet over.”

I looked at the ambulance, longing to go with

Private Kent. The sergeant snapped a leash on my col-

lar. “Stay. That’s an order, Darling.”

As much as I wanted to follow my handler, I could

not disobey. I let out a whine, deep and sad.

Then I collapsed at Sergeant Hanson’s feet.


June 10, 1917

Iwoke in a strange place. I was in a wooden crate,

but not the one I was used to. It was dark inside

except for a reddish pink light coming through the

slatted bars on the crate door. The air smelled like

antiseptic and bandages.

I smelled like antiseptic and bandages. When I

turned my head, I discovered white strips wound

tightly around my neck and under my belly. My front

paws were also wrapped in bandages. My fur was mat-

ted and caked, but there was no way I could clean

myself. Moving hurt too much.

Chapter Fourteen


Alison Hart

126

Where was I? Peering through the slats, I saw that I

was in a barn. Stalls, each containing a horse, lined the

long wall across from me. A thin-looking horse wore a

patch over his eye. A brown and white cart horse had a

bandage around his neck—like me. Another draft horse

hopped when he moved in the straw. They whinnied

hungrily, and my stomach growled as well.

This wasn’t the barn by the kennels. It was too silent

outside. I heard no barking dogs, shouting soldiers, or

thundering guns. The barn doors were shut, but rays

of sunlight slanted through the cracks between boards.

I decided the sun was rising. If it had been setting, the

horses would have been fed.

So it was morning, I was in a barn, and I hurt.

This must be where they took the wounded

animals. The ones that had disappeared from the

battlefield.

The barn door opened with a creak. The horses

neighed excitedly and I lifted my head. A small man

walked in, his shirt and trousers covered with a white

bib apron. He was whistling a saucy tune. From my


adventures with farmers and shopkeepers in Cosham,

I had quickly learned that a whistling man was usually

a pleasant one.

“Stop your bellyaching,” the man said in a teasing

manner to the horses. Picking up a pitchfork, he

tossed each of them hay from a stack in the corner.

After he was finished, he walked over and peeked

through the slats into my crate. His eye widened. “I

see you’ve come to.” Opening the door, he reached in.

I shied from his touch. “Easy, now. I’m the one who’s

changed your bandages and tended your wounds, so

don’t fret. Private Jimmy at your service, 204.”

He slipped a looped leash over my head and gently

tugged me from the crate. I stepped out gingerly and

stood for a moment, my legs as weak as if I’d just run

miles.

“You’ve been several days without food or water.” He

set a pan of water under my nose. I turned my head away.

Next he tried a tin of corned beef. I slunk back into the

crate, lay down, and hid my head in the corner. Even

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Alison Hart


though my stomach was empty, I didn’t want to eat. And

even though the man was being friendly, he was a

stranger and I didn’t want to please him.

Private Jimmy sighed. “I can’t blame you. That’s

my own ration and I can barely stomach it. And you

must have figured out I’m no dog person. Me, I was

a jockey. That’s why the army sent me to the veteri-

nary corps.” He chuckled. “Of course, I was used to

being on top of a horse, not under one.”

Private Jimmy gestured toward the stalls. “We’re

equipped for horses, not dogs. Though even there we

fall short. Poor beasts. We humans know why we’re

in this bloody war, but those poor devils don’t, do

they? Yet so many of them get ripped apart by shot

and worked to death.”

I didn’t respond.

Frowning, he shook his head at me. “The major had

hounds. He’ll know what to do with you when he

comes.” He walked away, leaving the crate door open.

I stared at the wooden wall, completely confused.

129



Where was Private Kent? Where were Tweed, Beast,

and Sergeant Hanson? Had they disappeared like

Private Jameson?

Pining for these men and dogs made me wonder

about Robert and Katherine. Would I ever see any of

the people who had once been important in my life

again? Or would I disappear, too?

9

“This dog hasn’t eaten since she arrived,” someone

said. It was the veterinarian they called Major. I knew

him from his gruff voice, the white coat over his uni-

form, and his fondness for foxhounds. “Nor left the

crate. It’s as if she’s too exhausted to eat.”

“Her name’s Darling.” I lifted my head at the

sound of my name. “And not only is she exhausted,

she’s probably in mourning.” I knew that voice! The

door was open and I peered out. Sergeant Hanson was

staring in at me, grinning. “Hello, lass.”

If I hadn’t had bandages on my paws and neck, I

would’ve leaped into his arms. Instead, I stood and

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Alison Hart


wiggled in happiness from head to toe, causing every

muscle to ache.

Kneeling, Sergeant Hanson wrapped his arms

around me and hugged me gently. “I’ve missed you.

The dog squad misses you.”

I licked his cheek, telling him how much I missed

them, too.

“Tweed and Beast and the other dogs, they’re fine,

as are their handlers,” he said as he sat back on his heels.

“The battle is mostly over, but they’re still working.”

I draped myself over his knees.

“Let me take a look at you, girl.” He unwrapped

the bandage around my neck and checked the wound.

“You were shot just below the collar. We didn’t see the

bleeding under all your thick fur. Major Clemson gave

you a trim and took out the bullet.” Setting me on

the barn floor, he stood up and asked sternly, “Now

what’s this about not eating? You can’t get strong if

you don’t eat.”

I tipped back my ears and hung my head. He

pulled a tin from his haversack. “I brought you your

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132

favorite—beef stew.” He spooned it into a bowl. “No

excuses now.”

It smelled as good as the bones we used to beg from

the butcher. Hungrily, I wolfed it down and licked the

bowl.

“What’s her condition?” Sergeant Hanson asked

the vet.

“The bullet that was lodged in her shoulder dam-

aged muscle and bone,” Major Clemson said. “We’re

trying to keep the wound from getting infected. Even

if it heals, she won’t be fit as a war dog again.”

A sudden change came over the sergeant. His face

paled and I knew that something was wrong. His

hand dropped to my head. “Major,” he finally said.

“Can we keep that information between the two of

us a while longer?”

Major Clemson nodded. “Of course. I’ve seen too

many animals who served bravely labeled ‘unfit.’ The

general says they can spare neither supplies nor time

for animals that can no longer serve. I won’t help the

army add your dog to the list of those that will be



133

destroyed. You have my word as an officer.”

Unfit. Destroyed. I didn’t know either of those

words. But the sharp way the major said them made

me hide behind Sergeant Hanson’s legs.

That evening, I discovered what the words meant.

Private Jimmy came in to feed us as usual. But this

time, he didn’t give hay to the draft horse in the last

stall. Instead he haltered him and groomed him with

care, muttering to him while he worked. The horse

was lame—like me. I had noticed that he hobbled

around his stall and often would only pick at his hay.

Despite the attention lavished upon him, he didn’t

seem to be getting better.

Finally, Private Jimmy opened the stall door and

led the horse to the doorway. Two men met him.

Reluctantly, he handed the lead rope over to them.

When they took the horse away, Private Jimmy hur-

ried back into the barn. Then he began to sing at the

top of his lungs.

Still, I heard the crack of a gun. The horse never

returned.


June 14, 1917

Sergeant Hanson traveled from the Front several

times to visit me. The convalescent horse depot

was far enough away that the sound of gunfire didn’t

reach us, but the road past it was often crowded with

troops and traffic. No matter how noisy it was, though,

I could always make out the roar of the motorcycle

engine that announced the sergeant’s arrival.

Each time he came he brought more stew. I tried

to eat it to show my appreciation. Sometimes I had to

force myself. Then he would clean my wound and put

on fresh bandages before he returned to the dog squad.

Chapter Fifteen


On his fourth visit, he took off his uniform tunic

the moment he arrived. After he had removed my

bandages, he slipped a looped leash around my neck.

“Time for a bath, Darling,” he announced. “Major

Clemson says your paws are healed. Your neck wound

could use some soap and water.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Besides, you smell like bully meat left to rot.”

He led me away from my crate for the first time

since my arrival. I hobbled after him, my leg and

shoulder still sore. For a moment I stood in the open

barn doorway to enjoy the warm sun on the crusty

gash on my neck and the cool breeze on my skin where

my hair had been shorn.

A bath sounded good even to me.

Private Jimmy was filling a washtub with water

with a hand pump. “I added hot water like you asked,

Sergeant. Though it seems to me I haven’t had a hot

bath myself for weeks.”

The sergeant laughed. “Nor I, Private. But I think

we may get plenty wet right now.”

I followed Sergeant Hanson to the tub. The mus-


135


cles in my shoulder were stiff, but something more

was wrong with my right leg. It only moved a short

distance with each step. I used to gallop up and down

Portsdown Hill, but now I could barely walk.

Private Jimmy watched me with solemn eyes as I

came closer. “It’s a shame such a beauty has to be so

thin and scarred.”

“She’s still a beauty,” said the sergeant. Carefully,

he lifted and set me into the water. At first it stung

my still-healing wounds. But after a few moments it

felt comforting.

The two men bent over the tub. I stood motion-

less as Private Jimmy ran warm water from a kettle

over my back and Sergeant Hanson scrubbed me with

a bar of soap.

Soon the water was brown. The final rinse was a

cold shower from a hose. I shook, almost falling over

when my wounded side gave way. Sergeant Hanson

carried me to a sunny spot by a horse paddock. I

rolled in the grass, waving my three good legs in

the air.

Alison Hart

136


After the sun had dried me, Sergeant Hanson led

me into the barn. He and Jimmy worked on my tan-

gles with horse brushes until I yelped for them to stop.

137


Then they stepped back and inspected me with seri-

ous expressions on their faces.

Neither man said a word. I wagged my tail, again

wondering what was wrong. Suddenly a terrible

thought struck me. The crippled horse had been given

extra care, he’d been carefully brushed—and then he

hadn’t returned.

I sank down on the floor. I was lame. I wasn’t

going to get better. I knew my fate.

Sergeant Hanson put on his tunic. Slowly, he but-

toned it. Then he slicked back his hair and set his cap

carefully on his head. Private Jimmy brought my old

collar, which he’d cleaned with saddle soap, and buck-

led it around my neck. The “204” stood out once

again, no longer covered in dirt and blood. He gave

Sergeant Hanson the leash.

“Godspeed,” Private Jimmy whispered.

My heart began to thump as the sergeant led me

from the barn. Balking in the doorway, I looked around

for the two men who had taken the horse away. They

stood by the side of road under the shade of a tree.

Alison Hart

138



139

But instead of handing my leash to them, Sergeant

Hanson picked me up and carried me to his motor-

cycle. He set me in the sidecar. I whined anxiously

and tried to scramble out.

“Sit,” Sergeant Hanson ordered in a firm voice.

I obeyed, though I couldn’t stop trembling. Private

Jimmy waved goodbye as the motorcycle roared from

the depot. We bumped down the road, weaving around

marching troops and stalled tanks. Safe at the depot,

I’d almost forgotten there was a war going on. Why

should I care? Even though I wore my collar, I was no

longer a war dog.

I had been deemed unfit for service. Only fit to be

destroyed.


June 14, 1917

The rough motorcycle ride jostled me and the ache

in my leg grew worse. Sergeant Hanson wore

goggles so I couldn’t see his expression. But his jaw

was rigid.

He turned off the road and stopped in front of a

long, whitewashed building. There were several army

vehicles parked outside, guarded by soldiers. A man

stood by the front doors; he didn’t wear a uniform.

Sergeant Hanson parked and the man walked toward

us, hand outstretched. A leather case hung from a

strap around his shoulder.

Chapter Sixteen


“Good to see you again, Paul,” the man said,

shaking the sergeant’s hand. “When was the last time?

London 1914, after we beat you at rugby?”

“Good to see you too, Billy. And I believe it was our

team that beat yours,” he said. “So you know what we

need to do?”

“Absolutely. And it will be my pleasure.”

Sergeant Hanson began to lift me from the sidecar,

but the man named Billy stopped him. “Let me get a

shot first.”

When I heard the word “shot,” I flattened against

the seat. But Billy didn’t have a gun. Instead, he pulled

a black box out of his leather case. Holding it to his eye,

he fiddled with it for a long time.

Then I heard several clicks.

“Save your film,” Sergeant Hanson said. “There will

be plenty of great shots.” This time when he picked me

up, I could feel the excitement coursing through him.

He set me on the ground and walked me into the

building; I smelled blood and antiseptic. Confusion

and fear mingled with my pain.


141


I balked again.

“It’s all right, Darling,” Sergeant Hanson assured

me. “It will all be explained in good time. Heel.”

Reluctantly, I limped beside him into a large, open

room. Each wall was lined with beds packed close

together, filled with wounded soldiers. A cluster of

men in uniform surrounded one bed, hiding the man

in it from view. Sergeant Hanson led me toward them,

Billy right behind us.

A woman in a long dress hurried up. “Sir, dogs are

not—”

Ignoring her, the sergeant walked faster. “Private

Kent,” he called out. “Private Kent!”

Private Kent! I knew that name. The group of sol-

diers turned in unison. It was then that I saw him. My

handler!

Forgetting the pain in my leg, I bounded forward.

Private Kent’s face lit up when he saw me. “Darling!

It’s my girl!”

I tried to leap up, but my right front leg buckled

under me. Sergeant Hanson caught me before I fell

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and set me onto Private Kent’s bed. I licked away the

tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. More cameras

clicked and flashes of lights exploded around us.

Billy pushed his way through the crowd. “General!

General!” he called out to a stately, white-haired man

who stood in the middle of the other soldiers. “May

I get a photo of you with the war heroes?”

The general glanced at the man, looking confused.

Billy pulled out a pad of paper. “Private Kent isn’t

the only hero who deserves to be decorated today, cor-

rect?” he said as he wrote something. “Darling, War

Dog 204, was the one who found the buried soldiers.”

“Aye, aye. It was me girl ’ere who saved me,”

Private Kent added. He started to say something else,

but he fell into a fit of coughs, rasping and deep. I

nuzzled his neck, willing him to stop. I had heard that

cough too many times in the trenches.

Holding a handkerchief to his mouth, the general

stepped away from us.

“She dug and dug…until ’er paws bled,” Private

Kent finally gasped when the coughing subsided. “She

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144

did it with a bullet in ’er side. We wouldn’t ’ave been

found if it wasn’t for ’er and Private Jameson.”

Private Jameson. I knew that name, too. A soldier

on crutches hobbled over. I sat up and peered at him.

Despite his clean face and smell, I knew it was the

wounded soldier who had helped me dig out the oth-

ers. Leaning down, he patted me. I licked his hand,

overjoyed to find out what had happened to one of

the soldiers I had only known for a short time.

“She saved me, too,” Private Jameson said. “She

took a German bullet for me.”

Click. Click. Pop. Pop. Billy took photos of all of us.

Sergeant Hanson stepped beside him. “It’s true,”

he said. “I was there. Private Jameson and Darling

worked together to dig out the men from the medical

corps. And Private Kent risked his life shielding them

from the explosion.”

“A photo of the heroes with you, General? For The

Daily Mirror.” Billy waved his hand in the air. “I can

see the headlines—General Decorates Three War

Heroes. England needs uplifting news.”


The general harrumphed but consented to stand

next to the headboard. Private Kent sat up straighter in

his bed. I raised my head proudly. When Billy lowered

his camera, one of the soldiers handed the general two

small boxes. He opened one and pulled out a shiny

medal. “The British Royal Army thanks you for your

service,” he said quickly, as if trying to get it over with.

He placed the medal and ribbon on Private Kent’s

chest. Then he did the same with Private Jameson.

Private Kent took the medal off his chest and

tucked one end of the ribbon in my collar. “Please,

sir, take a photo of the real hero to show all of

England. Darling, War Dog 204.”

Click. Click. Pop. Pop.

The general saluted, spun around, and left the

room, his entourage in tow. A nurse came over to

escort Private Jameson back to his cot. “The doctor

tells me I’m on the mend,” he said before he left.

“Which means I’m heading back to the Front.”

Sergeant Hanson raised one eyebrow.

“Which is fine with me,” Jameson added. “I miss

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Alison Hart


my mates in the regiment.” He gave me one last pat.

“Take care, 204.”

Billy and Sergeant Hanson watched him leave. “You

can get the photos and story to The Daily Mirror this

week?” the sergeant asked Billy.

“I’ll take them to the correspondent’s office myself,”

Billy said. “The Wipers Times has requested them as

well. By tomorrow every soldier in the trenches will be

weeping over this story.”

“The general won’t dare allow a hero to be

destroyed.” Sergeant Hanson burst out laughing as if

he finally didn’t have a care in the world.

“Will one of you explain what is going on?” Private

Kent asked. Again he had a fit of coughing. I snuggled

against his side, afraid to leave him.

Sergeant Hanson and Billy shook hands and the

reporter rushed from the hospital. Then the sergeant

pulled a stool over to Private Kent’s bedside. “I found

out that Darling was on the list of animals deemed

unfit. She was to be destroyed today,” he explained. “I

had to figure out a way to save her.”

147



Private Kent’s eyes reddened and his fingers tight-

ened in my fur. “I didn’t know.”

The sergeant reached for the medal still dangling

from my collar. “Billy is an old chum who’s a reporter

for The Daily Times. He’s making sure the world knows

that both of you are war heroes. The army censors the

news, but this story will get through. The British love

their dogs and they’ve sacrificed them for the fight. The

general knows that a photo of him decorating three war

heroes is just what people need.”

“A devious plan, Sergeant.” Private Kent gave him

a shaky grin. Then he clutched me tighter. “And now?”

he asked. “What’s going to ’appen now that neither of

us is fit for duty?”

“Now we find a way to send Darling back to

England.” Sergeant Hanson ruffled my ears. “Your

orders are to ship out in a week, Private Kent. Back to

England to recover. I’m doing everything I can to make

sure that Darling goes with you. I just need to convince

my lieutenant that the British people need a returning

war dog hero to celebrate.”

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Private Kent’s grin widened. “Did you ’ear that,

Darling? We’re going ’ome.” Leaning back against the

headboard, he sighed happily.

I sighed too, and placed my paws on his chest.

“Do you remember the note on her collar when

she arrived on the train at Shoeburyness?” Sergeant

Hanson asked.

“It seems a lifetime ago.”

Reaching in his pocket, Sergeant Hanson pulled

out a stained and tattered piece of paper.

I nosed it, smelling a faint whiff of Cosham.

“Dear soldier. This is Darling. She is smart and

brave. Please take care of her and send her home to us.

We love her even though she sometimes runs away. Yours

truly, Robert and Katherine,” he read. “Well, the chil-

dren were right. Darling proved she was smart and

brave. I didn’t know then if I could keep that promise,

but now I can.”

Leaning forward, he cupped my face in his hands.

“Darling, you and Private Kent are going home.”

149



Home. I knew that word. Home had been a ken-

nel, a ship, a train, a trench, and a crate.

But this home the sergeant was talking about was

special. It meant that I would return to my beloved

Robert, Katherine, and the village of Cosham. I

wouldn’t be able to run the hills of Portsdown ever

again. But I would walk the village streets and greet

the butcher and postmaster. I would watch over my

family and keep them safe until Father returned. I

would visit Private Kent and help him get back his

strength.

And best of all, I would stay far away from this

war. I had been the best war dog I could. But now it

was time to go home.

Lifting my head, I barked and barked with joy.

Alison Hart

150


Dogs in the Military

Dogs have been used for war throughout history. Dur-

ing World War I, when Darling takes place, Great

Britain and several other European countries used

dogs on the battlefront. Soldiers discovered that dogs

were loyal, smart, and quick and had keen eyesight

and an excellent sense of smell.

The most common use for dogs during WWI was

for carrying messages. A piece of paper was placed in

a small metal container on the dog’s collar. A dog

could carry a message four to five times faster than a

The History Behind Darling


human across enemy territory. The fastest time

recorded was three miles in three minutes! Dogs were

also scouts, ammunition carriers, and guards. Ambu-

lance and medical assistance dogs like Darling were

used later in the war.

Training of these special dogs took about six weeks

and required praise and treats like dried liver. First

they were taught to heel, to sit, and to stay silent. All

breeds were used, including mutts. Trainers looked for

grayish or black dogs that would blend into the back-

ground on the battlefield.

Mercy Dogs

Red Cross or Mercy Dogs like Darling searched for

wounded men on the battlefield. They usually worked

at night, using their sense of smell and superior vision.

They ran through barbed wire, poisonous gases, smoke,

fences, and explosions. “Good Red Cross dogs will

quickly clear a battlefield of all the wounded soldiers,”

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stated Senator George G. Vest (Scout, Red Cross and

Army Dogs, page 17).

Mercy Dogs carried medical supplies and water to

wounded men. If the soldier was unconscious, the dog

would return to him, leading his handler and stretcher

bearers. These dogs were trained to ignore dead soldiers.

Mercy Dogs were only used in World War I.

When armies stopped trench warfare, the need for

Mercy Dogs ended. However, dogs continue to be

trained today in the military, often to search for explo-

sives and drugs.

Dog Heroes

Dogs proved their loyalty and bravery time after time

in World War I. Captain, a French Red Cross Dog,

found thirty wounded men in one day. Prusco, another

French Red Cross Dog, found over a hundred men

after one battle. Sometimes Prusco dragged soldiers into

ditches, hoping that would keep them safe while he ran

back to his handlers.

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The United States did not use military dogs in

World War I, but soldiers sometimes kept dogs as

mascots. One of the most famous was Stubby, who

became a hero after capturing a German spy. He was

in seventeen battles and wounded many times. Stubby

returned to America after the war. He was celebrated

as a war hero and met three presidents.

Many brave dogs died in World War I. A 1917 issue

of Animalsmagazine estimated that seven thousand war

dogs were killed. There is a monument to dogs who

served in the World War, 1914-1918 at the Hartsdale

Canine Cemetery in New York. There is also a painting

of Mercy Dogs by Alexander Pope in the American Red

Cross Museum in Washington, D.C.

Cool Dog Facts

9 The Airedale was one of the first breeds

to be trained for the military.

9 A dog’s sense of smell is fifty to

one hundred times better than a human’s.

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9 Gas masks for dogs were first developed

during World War I.

9 In 2011, there were over 2,300 military

working dogs in the United States.

9 A law was passed in 2000 allowing retired

US military dogs to be adopted.

A Soldier’s Life

A military dog’s life during World War I was tough,

but so was a soldier’s. At the Battle of Messines Ridge,

most soldiers spent their days in trenches. They

guarded the front line, which was the area closest to

the German forces. In between was “no man’s land,”

the ground that separated enemy from enemy.

Trenches were ditches dug in the ground, six feet

deep by two feet wide. They were lined with sandbags,

sticks, and metal. Support trenches connected to the

front trenches in a twisty maze. Signs pointed the way,

but soldiers joked about getting lost.

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156

Troops shared the trenches with mice, fleas, frogs,

and lice. “There are five families of rats in the roof of

my dugout,” British Captain Bill Murray wrote to his

family, “which is two feet above my head in bed, and

the little rats practice somersaults continuously

through the night, for they have discovered that my

face is a soft landing when they fall” (The First World

War: A New Illustrated History, page 159).

When it rained, the ditches filled with mud. Sol-

diers on duty might have to stand knee-deep in water

for hours. They often developed an infection called

“trench foot.” Another infection called “trench

mouth” was caused by stress, smoking, and poor

hygiene. “I have not washed for a week,” wrote a sol-

dier, “or had my boots off for a fortnight” (Life in the

Trenches, page 69).

Food was carried from rear kitchens to the troops

in the front line. Often it arrived cold and spoiled.

Biscuits were so hard, reported a soldier, “that you had

to put them on a firm surface and smash them with a


stone” (Life in the Trenches, page 74). Soldiers were

issued mess kits with fork, spoon, knife, and “iron

rations” of tea and bully beef (canned corn beef ) that

they could heat over their Tommy cookers.

During the day, soldiers in the trenches played

cards, wrote letters, and cleaned their weapons. At

night, the Front became alive. Supplies were moved.

Patrols crept from the trenches and scouted the area.

Then raiding parties scurried across no man’s land,

crawling through barbed wire and darting into shell

craters. Dodging machine-gun fire and bombs, they

tried to capture and kill the enemy.

After one week to ten days of duty on the front

lines, a soldier would be sent “to the rear.” There they

took a hot bath, washed clothes, and ate a good meal.

“There is a bakery,” reported a visitor, “where a Master

Baker, in charge of a thousand men, bakes 350,000

2-lb. loaves every day” (Life in the Trenches, page 64).


157


The Battle of Messines Ridge, 1917

As described in Darling, the Battle of Messines Ridge

began with the explosion of nineteen underground

mines. Rocks and dirt blasted high into the air. The

earth shook and heaved. The explosions killed about

ten thousand German soldiers. The noise and force

even shocked the Allied soldiers (British, French,

Australians), since the mines had been kept a secret.

Germany had controlled Messines Ridge, located

in Belgium, since 1914. With the help of planes and

tanks, the Allies were able to advance to the German

front lines and capture the area. It was a bloody battle

and a hard-fought victory for the Allies. It is estimated

that over 42,000 lives were lost.

Interesting Facts about the War

9 World War I lasted from 1914 to 1918.

9 It was named The Great War because it

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was the first war to use massive weapons such

as tanks and two-ton howitzers.

9 Bomb is what the British call a hand

grenade.

9 A British soldier was called a “Tommie.”

9 Each soldier carried a ten-pound rifle,

a bayonet, sixty pounds of ammunition, a

digging tool, and a gas mask. Survival gear

might also consist of eating utensils, boot-

laces, a blanket, a razor, and iron rations.

Bibliography

Adams, Simon. Eyewitness Books: World War I. New

York: Dorling Kindersley Limited, 2001.

Cooper, Jilly. Animals in War: Valiant Horses, Coura-

geous Dogs, and Other Unsung Animal Heroes.

Guilford, CT: Lyons Press, 2002.

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Cummins, Bryan D. Colonel Richardson’s Airedales:

The Making of the British War Dog School, 1900-

1918. Brush Education, 2003.

Currie, Stephen. Life in the Trenches. San Diego:

Lucent Books, 2002.

Freedman, Russell. The War to End All Wars. New

York: Clarion Books, 2012.

Hamer, Blythe. Dogs at War. London: Carlton Books,

2001.

Jager, Theo F. Scout, Red Cross and Army Dogs.

Rochester, New York: Arrow Printing Company,

1917.

Lemish, Michael G. War Dogs: A History of Loyalty

and Heroism. Dulles, VA: Brassey’s, 1996.

Passingham, Ian. Pillars of Fire: The Battle of Messines

Ridge, June 1917. Sutton Publishing, 1998.

Ross, Stewart. Technology of World War I. New York:

Raintree Steck-Vaughn, 2003.

Ruffin, Frances E. Dog Heroes: Military Dogs. New York:

Bearport Publishing, 2007.

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Strachan, Hew. The First World War: A New Illustrated

History. London: Simon & Schuster, 2003.

FOR FURTHER READING

Adams, Simon. Eyewitness Books: World War I. New

York: Dorling Kindersley Limited, 2001.

Freedman, Russell. The War to End all Wars. New

York: Clarion Books, 2012.

Goldish, Meish and Ron Aiello. War Dogs. Bearport

Publishing Co., 2012.

Patent, Dorothy Hinshaw. Dogs on Duty: Soldiers’ Best

Friends on the Battlefield and Beyond. Walker Chil-

drens, 2012.

Ross, Stewart. Technology of World War I. New York:

Raintree Steck-Vaughn, 2003.

Ruffin, Frances E. Dog Heroes: Military Dogs. New

York: Bearport Publishing, 2007.

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WEBSITES

Military Working Dog Foundation, Inc.www.militaryworkingdog.com/history

A Multimedia History of World War Iwww.firstworldwar.com

The Great War and the Shaping of the 20th Centurywww.pbs.org/greatwar

The Worcestershire Regimentwww.worcestershireregiment.com

World War One Battlefieldswww.ww1battlefields.co.uk/flanders/messines.html

Great War Photoswww.greatwarphotos.com

Royal Army Medical Corps in the Great Warwww.ramc-ww1.com

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